Her slow fingers slipped over the books. Every single one in some way wore evidence of constant use. From the curling corners of the manuals to the sweat-polished spines of the hard covers. Even the flimsy pages of the bible contained an embroidered book-mark crumpled with use. Though she knew the book-case well, she’d never even opened the more profound books. Once school was behind her, she’d gratefully turned to the light romance magazines her mother read.
After her father had left, the book-case had remained unopened. Until tonight. And here, at midnight and uninterrupted, she began to understand that she hardly knew her father at all. She began to comprehend that the books were a clue to the man he might have been. Maybe once, before being weighed down with the responsibilities of a family, he’d even been a bit like Julian? An idealist?
It wasn’t such a stretch. Here, in her father’s book-case, she could learn about Julian’s world. She needed to understand the reasons for the passionate idealism which drove him to do the things he did. He was honest and caring. Unlike anyone else she’d ever known, even the ethereal vicar, Julian Reeves had made a cause his life. He’d told her - communism was his life. At heart he was no more a criminal than her father. Yet, legally, he was. Why? What were his reasons?
Praying her mother wouldn’t hear, she selected two encyclopaedias, a dictionary, and the folder of newspaper cuttings her father had collected since English Prime Minister Neville Chamberlaine’s 1938 ‘Peace in our time’ retreat at Munich. Finally, she added Steinbeck’s ‘The Grapes of Wrath’. Though she’d read it before she’d retreated to light fiction, its impact had been indelible.
Softly closing the stained-glass doors of the cabinet, she switched off the light and silently retraced her steps through the darkened rooms to her bedroom. The disadvantages of sleeping in a bedroom which opened directly into the living room were outweighed by the advantages of sleeping at a distance from the rest of the family. Tonight she could be sure of privacy without enduring the anxiety of unexpected disturbance.
She turned on the bed lamp, climbed between the still-warm sheets, and buried herself in the books. Though there was still no rain, the howling wind ripped at the branches of the un-pruned rose bush outside her window. Its eerie tattoo was unnerving in the mid-night silence.
Soon, as she flipped through the pages, the chilling protest of the rose talons went unheard. She traced the growth of the socialist revolution from as far back as Greek Plato and Socrates who wrote of the ideal of communal property. She perused reports of English Thomas More’s Utopia, touched on Russian Tolstoy’s idealistic social reform, scanned Marx and Lenin, soaked up what her tiring brain could absorb of the ideal of communism, and arrived at humanism.
Humanism! For the humanist, man should show respect to man irrespective of class, race or creed. The central arresting theme was clearly written. Tiredness vanished. Excited, wanting to share the discovery, wishing her father was in the next room, she again heard the wind and the scratching thorns of the tormented rose bush. Looking at the bedside clock, she ignored its hands pointing to seven minutes after two a.m. The books would not wait.
Retracing her steps, she returned to communism, and delved more deeply. It was from the work of Marx and Engels, who lived when the under classes were unscrupulously exploited by the capitalists, that communism had taken root. It was their humanitarianism, their concern for social justice, which had inspired their work.
Social justice. Respect for Man. Love of one’s fellow. Equality for all. The French Revolution. Liberty! Equality! Fraternity! The words had stirred her, but only as any other piece of romantic fiction. ‘The Tale of Two Cities’, as told by Charles Dickens, was a story. Beautiful and sad, even historically interesting, it had nothing to do with life in twentieth century Australia.
So what about Steinbeck? What about the powerful ‘Grapes of Wrath’? Twentieth century America. Was it so different from twentieth century Australia? The harrowing years of the Great Depression were too recent. Memory of cardboard inner soles inserted into broken shoes, of hand-me-down clothes, of her mother selling cookies to pay for the next meal, of her father hopelessly looking for work, of the dole queues.
Same Depression, same time, merely in a different place. Maybe different in degree of degradation? She’d been too young to really know. Yet Australia’s Depression had much in common with America’s Depression; and others? Hardship, brutality, grinding poverty….Steinbeck. Dickens. Shakespeare… The books she’d stopped reading.
Too young to appreciate it, she’d grown up in a world where injustice ruled. No longer too young to know, she was living in a world where injustice was ruling ever more destructively. Racialism, violence, intolerance, destruction under the iron boot of Fascism, was gaining control. She was living in a sick world. Hitler and Mussolini and Franco and Hirihito…
An errant thought arrested her - ‘Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.’ Why that thought? Exasperated, she threw the books aside. She knew, too well, why that thought. She’d heard it every Sunday. For years. There wasn’t all that much difference. Why the fuss? Why were equality and fraternity as preached by Christianity legal, yet the equality and fraternity as preached by Communism illegal?
Leave aside questions of faith and miracles and both preached an identical ideal. Both were impossible. Both preached love thy neighbour. Whether poor, rich, stupid, clever, believer, atheist, black, white, brindle or whatever - love each and every one of them. Who could be constantly forgiving, accepting, loving, equal, to every single other person? Who wanted to be? Who wanted communal anything?
It didn’t matter. In principle, inequality was unfair. She willed her aching mind to concentrate. She thought about her own life. Even though the Japanese were knocking at the door, even though the Americans had become necessary to Australia’s survival, even though rationing was a hardship, right this minute she was safe and secure and free. Right this minute she had no more to fear than an imaginary ghost plucking at a wind-blown rose bush. She could only guess what it must have been like for Inga…
Exhausted, she fell asleep, the light from the lamp on her face, the tumbled books heavy on her spread-eagled arms. The wintry dawn stole across the reluctant horizon, the insistent thorns scratched hysterically on the window pane.
She heard nothing.
Chapter Four
July 25th : The Japanese bomb Townsville for the first time.
The storm had worn itself out. From the chimneys smoke curled straight up, windless, into the washed-blue sky. In the streets the gutters were rivers, the footpaths littered with the shredded leaves of ever-greens.
Ankle-deep in water she waded to the morning tram, climbed the steps, negotiated a path through the walls of open newspapers, and fell asleep until the conductor nudged her awake. “Your Stop, Miss.”
Julian was waiting. “You’re wet through.”
She looked down at her soaking high heels. “I’m tired.”
“It’s my fault. I should have got you home earlier.”
“No it’s not. I stayed up reading.”
He didn’t ask about it, she hadn’t expected him to.
In the bus she again dozed. Leaning on Julian’s shoulder, she was vaguely aware of the whispered conversation above her head; Mick and Julian were planning their week-end.
She woke as the bus jounced to a standstill at the guarded gates.
“See you tonight.” As every morning, Julian disappeared down his separate path.
Fascination with the work quickly dispelling exhaustion, the morning passed as all the others. At lunch break they sat outside, the bleak sunshine and the crisp air a sharp antidote to the pampered environment of the controlled laboratory.
“Mum says it’s why we get so many colds.” Sophie was going out of her way to be friendly.
“I’m a tough old bird.” Margaret, a new recruit, boasted. “I never catch cold.”
“This place will test you,” warned Grace, struggling as always with her unp
alatable sandwiches.
“I don’t know why you don’t make yourself a decent lunch,” Joan complained. “It’s the same every day. You whinge all through lunch.”
“No time.” Grace dumped a half-eaten sandwich back in the box. “By the time I make something appetising for the boys, I’m flat out getting anything at all.”
“Do you catch many colds, Anne?” Margaret had noted Anne’s pinched face and the dark circles under her eyes.
“Let her rest,” Lillian advised. “She’s had a late night.”
“I’m okay,” Anne carefully repacked her lunch box. Because her mother was fussy about providing clean serviettes each day, she had to make sure the soiled ones arrived home for regular laundering.
“You sure you’re not coming down with something now?” Sophie pressed.
“Not if I can help it.”
“My Mum’s always on about my colds.” Though well-built and apparently physically strong, Helen was frequently ill.
“Your mother’s always on about everything,” Joan jibed.
“At least she cuts her a healthy lunch,” Grace laughingly mourned.
“Tell you what, Grace.” Sophie offered. “I’ll bring you something special tomorrow.”
“You do that. I promise not to whinge.”
Laughing, joking, teasing, they broke up. Anne followed as they dawdled back to the lab, waited for the guard to unlock the door, greeted Director Jeffrey Macklin as he strode into his office, and recommenced work. This day was no different from its predecessors.
The journey home, too, was as all others; Mick and Julian and their group plotting; the workers exchanging the latest news of the war and the latest news of the War Effort, Anne dozing. As always, they alighted from the bus and started for the tram shelter.
Stopping under the cover of the corner shop’s awning, Julian held her back: “This is goodbye, Anne.”
“Mum’ll be glad. She says I need an early night.”
“I mean goodbye, goodbye for a long time,” he explained. “It’s come through - the transfer.”
Stunned, she scanned his impassive eyes.
“I’m sorry, Anne.” He took her hands in his.
Fighting the starting flood of tears, she desperately willed them away.
“Anne – I’m sorry. I really thought we’d have more time.”
“You knew!”
“I tried to tell you. Remember. I tried to tell you.”
The walk! The walk he’d requested. The night in the back room at St Margaret’s. “You knew you were going! That night! How could you!”
Not answering, he looked to his friends waiting in the shelter.
Furious, she tried to pull free.
“Don’t be upset, Anne.” His grip tightened. “Please don’t be upset.”
He wanted her to cry.
“You’re hurting me!”
He released her. “I did warn you.”
“You didn’t tell me. When you knew, you didn’t tell me!”
“I tried....”
“You used me!”
“What!!!” He was white. In the dim light, he was white. For once, he wasn’t finding a ready reply.
“You needed me. To hide what you’re doing!”
“You can’t believe that.” He shook his head. “How can you believe that!”
“Mum was right about you.”
“Whatever that means.”
“She said not to trust you. She was right.”
“You have to know, Anne. This isn’t the way I wanted to say goodbye. I do care what happens to you.”
“Leave me alone!” The tram was nearing the stop, the queue of waiting passengers jostling for position. She moved to join them.
“Please, Anne…. Don’t leave like this.”
He seemed to be hurt; had she actually hurt him? She turned back. Across the road the tram paused, the queue boarded, and the tram left without her. She must not miss the next one.
“Anne?”
What was the truth about him? His cause was illegal. Although her mother mistrusted him, she trusted him. Who was right? He was gentle and caring. He had a cause he believed in. It was who he was, a man who cared about the kind of equality she’d read of only last night. He worked and planned and lived for it.
She should not make things harder for him. “You should have told me you were leaving tonight.”
In the shaded light his face was taut and unhappy. “Please, Anne. Try to understand. That night, I was going to warn you. But the actual date - it had to be kept secret. I didn’t tell you because I couldn’t.”
“You knew!” It was true. His cause came first. Before everything, before her feelings. Why should she try to make things easier for him? “You knew and you didn’t warn me. You just tried to...”
“For God’s sake, Anne! Grow up!”
“I’ll never forgive you.”
He stepped back. “It’s unimportant.”
It was as it always had been.
“I’m sorry,” he apologised. “You do know what I mean.”
“I do. The Party’s more important than me.” Sick, she saw the approach of what was to be the last tram for half an hour.
The tram stopped. She started for it.
Julian followed.
The conductor, catching sight of them, waited.
Julian helped her up the steps. “I’ll write, Anne.”
The conductor clanged the bell-cord, the tram moved; she fell against him.
“Are you okay, Miss?”
For a moment she rested against the stranger, then nodded, and searched for an empty seat. Looking back, she saw the receding corner shop and the shelter where the secretive figures of his friends were waiting. She could not see Julian.
“Fares! Fares, please.”
She showed her ticket.
“Miss!”
She tried to move, but her frozen hands and feet were too stiff.
“Miss!” The conductor repeated. “We’re at the terminus.”
Peering through the rain-streaked window, she could see nothing.
“Freezing bloody night, Dick.” The conductor warned the driver as he surged through the tram to reverse the controls and begin the return journey back into the city. “Take it easy.”
Clearing a small peep-hole in the window, she saw St Margaret’s across the road.
“Did you miss your stop?” The conductor belatedly sympathised.
“No.” She limped proudly down the aisle.
“You could stay on board.” He didn’t believe her. “We’ll drop you off at your regular stop.”
“I didn’t miss it.” She avoided his sceptical eyes. “I was coming here.”
Conscious of his disbelieving gaze on her retreating back, she hobbled down the steps, crossed to St Margaret’s. There was no point in taking refuge in the choir room, even if she wanted to; she had to get home.
Huddling out of sight, massaging her aching feet and hands, she waited for the sound of the tram clattering down the hill. How could she have missed her stop? How could she have been stupid enough to get herself into this predicament? She must have fallen asleep. She had no memory of the long journey through the inner suburbs, out past Cook Street, and up the long hill. It was Julian’s fault. She hadn’t been asleep. She’d been in shock. She was still in shock. How could he do that to her?
It was raining again. Leaving her umbrella un-opened, she deliberately removed cap and gloves and coat and exited the safety of St Margaret’s grounds. Soaked by the freezing rain, feeling only the excruciating pain of Julian’s cruelty, she walked blindly back down through the deserted streets. Habit guided her feet around customary corners. There was no welcome from the friendly labrador or alert from the hysterical terrier; it was too wet even for them. Or maybe they were indoors by a warm fire. As Julian would be by now.
The house was dark, no light shone through the heavily curtained windows. She struggled up the steps, across the porch to the door and, unable t
o see the bell, abruptly panicked. Screaming, she pounded the door.
The door opened. “Anne! What’s happened?”
“I missed the tram stop.”
“What happened to your hat and coat?”
“I took them off. I was wet through.”
“Are you all right?” May hurried her into the warm living room. “You don’t look right. I’ll run a hot bath. Get your things…”
In the bathroom there was the white ceiling, the polished brass taps, the green and white striped towels, the gas hot-water heater, the steamed grey walls, mouldy and cracked. Dad should be here to fix the cracks.
She had to stop crying. They’d been right, all along they’d been right about Julian. Where was her father? He should be here, with his family. June should be here. Why did the war have to spoil everything?
Doctor Matthews diagnosed pneumonia. Her mother, who nursed her, must have learned why Julian and his friends never visited. Someone must have told her about the transfers. Probably the girls at the laboratory, or even Macklin. No-one spoke of it to Anne. She wouldn’t have heard them if they had.
When her father eventually came home on compassionate leave, she was conscious and out of serious danger.
She cried when she saw him, he did not ask why. He did not ask about anything, but sat by her bed, gently held her emaciated hands and said: “You’re still young, Anne. It’s spring outside. You’ll get over him.”
“Call when you’re ready,” her mother ordered. “I’ll help you back to bed.”
There was the white ceiling, the polished brass taps, the green and white striped towels, the gas hot-water heater and the freshly painted walls. Her father had been home, and left.
It was her first real bath in six weeks. Julian had not written. Someone had talked about forgetting him. She’d never forget him.
“Anne?”
She dragged herself from the bath. “I’m out, Mum.”
“Doctor says you can sit out for a while.”
She’d rather sleep.
The chair was draped in blankets, the bedroom window closed against the crisp spring breeze.
Tools of War Page 7