In the Mouth of the Tiger

by Lynette Silver

  Even the ground seemed alien. It was winter and we were having a lot of rain, but still the earth seemed dry and barren, bleached by too much sun and covered by harsh yellow grass. I’d remember the lush green paddy fields of Malaya, the ulu with its orchids, its cascading lantana bushes and its sweeping palms, and feel such a surge of homesickness that my head would swim.

  I even began to think that the people, the ordinary Australians I met every day, were under their surface affability as hard and unforgiving as the land they lived in. The men all seemed to have lean, closed faces and the women hard, loud voices that jarred even when they were pretending to be friendly. I’d study them on the bus, or when I was out shopping, and I’d shudder at how hard and unfriendly they appeared. We had a neighbour who seemed to go out of his way to be unpleasant, a dried-up little man who had worked in the Collie coalmines before a chest complaint had turned him into a bitter recluse. I’d done my best to make friends, cooked him cakes and pies and called out a bright greeting whenever we met. But he remained implacably antagonistic. If the children made a noise in the garden I’d hear him grumbling to himself, deliberately speaking loud enough for me to hear: ‘Spoilt bloody brats. Take after their spoilt bloody parents. Turfed out of bloody Singapore so now they’ve come to bludge on us.’

  One day I was at the corner store and dropped a bag of shopping. As I stooped to gather my things I glanced up just in time to see the other women in the shop smirking with malicious pleasure. ‘Send your servant girl next time,’ someone said. Or I thought someone said, because I was so confused and flustered that I couldn’t swear to anything. The shopkeeper stooped down to help me but I couldn’t thank him because I was too frightened that I would burst into tears. I just scurried out of the shop like a frightened rabbit, only remembering that I had not paid when I was halfway home.

  That night, I faced the fact that something must be wrong with me. Dreadfully wrong. I’d never felt like this or acted like this in my life. I helped prepare the boys for bed in a trance, so preoccupied in trying to work out what was wrong with me that even they noticed. ‘What is wrong, Mummy?’ Tony asked as I stuffed toys and dirty clothes into the cupboard all jumbled

  together. ‘You are looking at things without seeing them!’

  I paused and breathed deeply, wondering if this was what people called a nervous breakdown. ‘I’m all right, darling,’ I said, forcing myself to sound calm. ‘It’s just that I have lots to do tonight. I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  I took three Bex powders and went to bed early, hoping that when I woke everything would be back to normal. But I was too overwrought for sleep. I heard twelve o’clock strike on our hall clock, and then one in the morning. But still sleep would not come. In fact, as the night wore on, the more awake I became, and the more frightened. Finally I tried to summon up Denis’s face in my mind as I lay in the dark, seeking comfort in the image of his quiet smile. But the beloved face would not appear. My mind remained completely blank, and I was suddenly petrified, my hand over my mouth as I struggled desperately not to cry out.

  I slept with the light on for the rest of the night. Or rather, I lay awake all night with the light on, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what was happening to me.

  ‘Neurasthaenia,’ Dr Lawrence said quietly, tapping his fingers gently on the notes he’d taken. Dr Lawrence was our local GP, and I was very lucky to have him as my doctor because I think he was light-years ahead of his time. I’d walked around to his little suburban surgery right on nine o’clock, and he had squeezed me into his packed schedule.

  ‘Is it serious?’ I asked, twisting my handkerchief nervously in my hands.

  ‘Yes and no, Mrs Elesmere-Elliott. It’s not going to kill you, but unless we deal with it properly it could well ruin your life.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of neurasthaenia before. What exactly is it, doctor?’

  Dr Lawrence smiled. ‘To be truthful, a lot of different things to different people. It’s a catch-all diagnosis that covers a multitude of sins. In your case, I’d say pretty serious depression with a strong dose of anxiety thrown in. You have had to cope with much too much for far too long, and your mind is saying “enough is enough”.’

  ‘Do you think I’m having a nervous breakdown?’ I asked frankly.

  Dr Lawrence gave another of his engaging smiles. ‘A nervous breakdown is a very silly phrase,’ he said. ‘Let’s not get bogged down with words and phrases. Let’s instead think about how we are going to deal with the problem.’

  I felt better already, and felt my shoulders relaxing, the tenseness in my face washing away so that I could actually smile. ‘You’re the doctor,’ I said. ‘What do you prescribe?’

  ‘If I followed Sigmund Freud, I’d plonk you down on a couch and get you to tell me your life’s story. How you were potty-trained, and how you got on with your mum and dad and sister Mavis. I’d even get you to remember how you were once frightened by a dirty old man at the bus stop. But quite frankly, I haven’t the time. I also happen to think that raking over dead coals can often do more harm than good. So I’m going to give you my own treatment – the Dr Lawrence Special.’ He picked up a prescription pad and scribbled some words, then turned the pad around and pushed it across to me.

  The words were ‘Kindness, and a gentle kick in the pants’. I stared, not knowing what to make of them.

  ‘Kindness, because you have earned it,’ he said. ‘Kindness to yourself for a start. Treat yourself to some happiness. Go out to a funny film – there’s a Laurel and Hardy showing at the Odeon in Fremantle right now. Or get some friends together and get out and do some dancing.’ I was going to say that I simply couldn’t do that while Denis was in danger but he held up a peremptory hand. ‘I know your man is at war but you can’t help him by sitting at home moping. You will help him much more by getting well.’

  ‘And the kick in the pants?’ I asked.

  ‘Self-pity is one of the worst things that a human being can suffer,’ Dr Lawrence said seriously. ‘It’s worse than cruelty. It’s even worse than most sorts of pain. It corrodes the soul.’

  ‘How can you prescribe a kick in the pants?’ I asked. The thought popped into my mind that I might have to take a prescription around to the chemist and bend over as the venerable apothecary gave me a solemn kick in the backside. The thought brought a bubble of humour from somewhere and I actually laughed.

  ‘That’s a lot better, Mrs Elesmere-Elliott,’ Dr Lawrence said, his eyes crinkling. ‘You are laughing at yourself. But as to your question, I don’t prescribe the kick in the pants. Life does that often enough. So just be ready for it when it comes along. And remember when it does come just how much good it is doing you!’

  I left Dr Lawrence’s surgery feeling a lot better, and walked home with my mind at peace for the first time in months. I wasn’t about to crack up. I didn’t have a brain tumour or some dreadful mental illness. I was just a little over-stressed. I needed to indulge myself, take things a bit easier. And eat more carefully – Dr Lawrence had given me quite a lecture about diet and the need for vitamins, and made me promise to take a large spoonful of Cornwall’s Malt Extract after every meal. He’d even given me a can of the stuff, fishing it out from a jumbled cupboard and presenting it to me as a gift.

  It was a glorious sunny day, the sky above a deep Australian blue. I found myself whistling as I hadn’t whistled since the fall of Singapore.

  I noticed that in my new frame of mind even the Australian bush beyond our back fence looked friendlier. As I helped Shirley hang out the washing I quite admired the languid elegance of the gums, and noticed for the first time how the sun brought out the scent of eucalyptus.

  The kick in the pants came that night. Just on dusk, a string of army lorries ground up our street and turned into the bushland behind the back fence. There was some sort of military exercise on, and a searchlight was set up immediately behind our house. The boys were fascinated and as darkness closed in and the great light was swit
ched on, sweeping its beam across the heavens, we all trooped out to watch the action.

  A sergeant leaned over the back fence, his lean brown face split into a rather fulsome grin. ‘Any chance of a drink of water, lady?’ he asked. I didn’t like the look of him but the boys both looked at me expectantly and I nodded and smiled back. ‘Would your men like a billy of tea?’ I asked politely.

  The man stared at me, his smile still in place but somehow even more insincere. He didn’t answer directly. ‘English, are you lady?’

  ‘Yes. Would you like a billy of tea?’ I was already regretting my gesture but felt compelled to follow it through.

  The sergeant vaulted the fence and swaggered up to me, his face now almost a leer. ‘I reckon you owe us a billy of tea, lady,’ he said. ‘You must be one of them sheilas who pissed off from England to avoid the Krauts. What does it feel like to escape the Krauts only to have the bloody Japanese breathin’ down yer neck?’

  I should have stopped things there and then and told the man to get out of my garden and forget the offer of tea. But I was caught off balance, and tried to ignore his rudeness. I suppose it was my old fear of a making a scene.

  ‘Look, I’ll make a billy of tea and bring it out to you,’ I said, trying to muster up some dignity. ‘Please get back to your men – I’m sure you’re needed.’

  ‘I’ll make a billy of tea and bring it out to you,’ he simpered, speaking as if he had a plum in his mouth, and there was a guffaw of laughter from the fence-line. A row of grinning faces had appeared over the palings: clearly the sergeant was regarded by his men as something of a card and they didn’t want to miss any of the fun.

  ‘Better come inside, Mrs Elliott,’ Shirley said urgently, and even Tony noticed the tension in the air and put his hand into mine.

  ‘Wait here,’ I said to the sergeant as brusquely as I could, and we all trooped into the brightness of the kitchen. The kettle took ages to boil and as I waited I could hear more men vaulting over the fence and joining the sergeant on the back steps. There was a burst of raucous laughter, and then suddenly the kitchen was full of soldiers.

  ‘Please get out!’ I said almost hysterically. ‘I didn’t invite you inside! I’ll bring the billy out to you when it’s ready.’

  ‘Steady on, lady,’ the sergeant said, putting his hands on my shoulders with heavy-handed familiarity. ‘We’ve only come to help.’ And then his voice changed, became almost ugly. ‘Or aren’t we Aussies good enough to come into your posh Pommy kitchen?’

  Someone sniggered behind me and I spun round to see a pimplyfaced private trying on one of my aprons. ‘How dare you touch my things,’ I snapped, trying to snatch it back. But the private waltzed away grinning, and then when I followed him he held the apron out like a matador’s cape and danced back past me.

  Things were getting totally out of hand and I stood in the middle of my own kitchen completely at a loss. Shirley was staring at me from door into the hallway, Tony and Bobby beside her, and I could feel the tears brimming in my eyes.

  And then I remembered Dr Lawrence. This was the kick in the pants he had prescribed. What had he said? ‘Be ready for it when it comes, and remember how much good it is doing you!’

  I picked up the near-boiling kettle and flung it into the sink with all the force I could muster. There was a tremendous crash – I had forgotten that the sink was full of dishes – and steam and water splashed high against the kitchen window. ‘Now get out, all of you!’ I screamed. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’

  The effect was electrifying. Within seconds the men had bolted, and I saw them scrambling over the back fence with almost comical haste. Suddenly I felt terrific. I felt powerful. I strode out the back door and straight down to the fence, my arm pointing unwaveringly at the sergeant. ‘You, Sergeant. I want your name and unit. Now, or I will call the Military Police!’

  He slunk back to face me over the palings, his slouch hat in his hand and an ingratiating smile on his face. ‘No need to be hasty, Missus,’ he pleaded. ‘The boys and I was just havin’ a bit of fun. Sorry it was at your expense. Can we call it quits?’

  I stared at him coldly. ‘You are a disgrace to your country,’ I said. ‘You should be ashamed to wear that hat you have in your hand. I saw Australians wearing that hat on the Empire Star when we fought our way out of Singapore. They were shooting at Japanese bombers with .303 rifles, and still had the time and grace to care for women and children. All you can do is pick on those weaker than you are for your sport. You and your type make me puke.’

  I turned on my heel and stalked back to the kitchen. I was trembling so badly I thought I’d fall, but inside of me I was screaming in triumph.

  ‘You broke all the plates, Mrs Elliott,’ Shirley said, but her eyes were shining. ‘Gee, but you told those blokes off pretty good! I reckon it was worth a few broken plates.’

  That night I slept like a log.

  Dr Lawrence had also prescribed a dose of kindness, and my measure of kindness came from a most unexpected quarter. One afternoon, a gangling, awkward young sub-lieutenant called John Batten appeared on our front step, his cap in one hand and a wilting bunch of gladioli in the other. ‘Mrs Batten?’ he asked tentatively, and then cleared his throat. ‘I mean, my name is Batten – are you Mrs Elesmere-Elliott?’

  John Batten was attached to the Naval Pay Office at Leeuwin. He had travelled on the train with Denis, taking a secure bag to NID headquarters in Melbourne, and Denis had invited him to share his compartment. They had chatted. ‘We worked out that we were kin, Mrs Elesmere-Elliott,’ John said. ‘I’m not sure exactly how. But since we’re relatives, I thought I should make my number. I hope you don’t think I’m intruding.’

  My meeting with John not only gave me a chance to mother a rather lonely, likeable young man, but it introduced me to the kindest family on earth. Within a few weeks I had written to his mother in Melbourne, able to assure her that her son was safe and happy in Western Australia. I told her that he was already part of our family, and had developed the habit of dropping in for ‘pot luck’ on most evenings. ‘He is not one who likes to be out with the boys,’ I wrote. ‘He is more at home in a family environment, which is our good fortune because he helps make up for Denis’s absence. My children adore him.’

  I received such a warm response from Mrs Batten that in my second letter to her I poured out my deepest thoughts and fears. I even told her of my difficulty in coming to terms with Australia and Australians, and how I often felt a stranger in a strange land.

  Mrs Batten’s response – pages and pages of bold scribble on pale lavender paper – was balm to my soul. I read it over and over again, keeping it with me even when I was out on my walk so that I could re-read the key passages. She told me all about herself, about her husband Charles who was a prominent dentist in Melbourne, and about her three sons who had all interrupted university studies to fight in the war. She told me of her secret pain that Charles – an Anglican – would not become a Catholic like herself, so that she had nightmares about the future of his soul. ‘I am a silly old thing,’ she wrote. ‘And I don’t take much in life too seriously. But for me, faith and the future of the immortal soul are matters that transcend everything. Charles is what we Australians call a larrikin, a lovable sinner. He would die rather than deliberately cause me pain, but he is incorrigible, and he won’t join my faith. That leaves me the saddest woman on the face of the earth.’

  At the end of her letter she had scribbled a postscript. ‘Please, dear Norma, come over to Melbourne! I can understand your loneliness in Perth. It is a lovely place with the best climate in Australia but it has not been settled long enough to have a soul. It is new, and brash, and careless of the things that really count. The arts, music, and tradition. I have rooms here in my home for you and yours. I can promise that you will like it here in Melbourne. I will take you to our art galleries, and to the opera, and to our lovely restaurants. And you will be closer to Denis.

  It was not an invitati
on made only as a matter of form. John dropped in a day or so after I had received the letter to say his mother had also written to him, asking him to urge me to accept the invitation. ‘But I’ve never met your mother, or your father,’ I said. ‘I really would feel as if we were taking advantage of her kindness . . .’

  ‘Nonsense!’ John boomed. He was young and callow but he could boom. His voice was deep and resonant, and when he said something he felt was important he could invest his tone with real authority. ‘Look, Norma, my mother likes nothing better than to put people up in her home whom she thinks need looking after. She took in two youngsters from the Vienna Boys’ Choir when they were stranded in Australia by the outbreak of war.’

  ‘We’re not exactly stranded choirboys,’ I said gently.

  ‘I didn’t mean that quite the way it came out,’ John said. ‘I know that in your case she would love the company. All of her boys are away from home and Dad’s away at work all day. Mother is not used to solitude.’

  ‘It is a lovely invitation,’ I said. ‘If we are ever in Melbourne I’ll meet your mother and we will talk it over.’ In reality, I knew that the chances of us ever going to Melbourne were slim. Melbourne was two thousand miles away, and as the Government had taken control of all interstate travel in Australia, train seats for civilians were as hard to obtain as hens’ teeth.

  But the invitation warmed me. It warmed me during the cold, drizzly days of July and August, so that I coped even when the whole household was down with influenza and I spent my days racing from one to the other with hot lemon drinks and bowls of Friar’s Balsam. I coped because I felt buoyed by kindness and support. Dr Lawrence had been right. A kick in the pants to stop me feeling sorry for myself, and kindness to bolster the heart.

  It was October before I received a letter from Denis. It was a long letter, posted in Townsville, and when I first extracted the pages from the envelope my heart turned over because it was on hospital notepaper: