Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “I would think so. You know Macklin. He wasn’t in the Army for nothing. Sees Reds under beds and Gerries around every corner. He’s working with the investigation team.”

  “No-one questioned me.”

  “Why should they worry you? You were already off sick.”

  She inspected the small stark room, the tall narrow metal lockers, the glaringly intrusive overhead light, the bare window with the fresh new bars.

  “It’s not your concern, Anne. Don’t stress yourself.”

  Gagging on the tepid dregs, she drained her cup. “I’ll get back to work.”

  “Wait another minute,” Grace advised.

  “I’m all right now.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I’m all right!”

  “Just – please don’t overdo it. We all missed you.”

  “Someone should have warned me. Everything’s different.”

  “Of course it is, Anne. You’ve been away a long time. Even if there’d been no explosion, things would still be different. Everybody’s so worried. The war…”

  “It’s you too. You’re different.”

  “I couldn’t turn the job down. You know that. Why should it change things? We’re still friends.”

  “I hope so.” How could they stay friends? Grace was now her boss.

  Grace read her mind. “It shouldn’t make too much difference.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “I didn’t ask for it, Anne. They offered it.”

  “I thought you went for interviews?”

  “Hours of them. Crammed into a very short time. Miss Longmire left in such a hurry. They had to get it done quickly.”

  “Why did she leave? When I got sick there was no talk of her leaving.”

  “I’m not sure,” Grace frowned. “It was a bit off. She was here one night when we left. Next morning Macklin told us she’d been transferred.”

  “Did he say why? Something must have happened.”

  “A bit like you,” Grace laughed. “You were here one day and gone the next.”

  “It’s not the same!”

  “I’m teasing, Anne.”

  How could Grace know she was likening Rebecca Longmire’s sudden transfer to Julian’s? It had been at the same time.

  “I’m sorry. It’s unsettling,” she apologised. “I’ll bet the girls were happy to have you as the new boss.”

  “You should be pleased for me too,” Grace chided. “Putting the boys through college is expensive.”

  It was one of the differences she’d had to learn about. In Grace’s world everyone went to private schools, everyone had the money to pay for private schools. Unless the divorce had affected Grace’s income? Whatever her reasons for accepting the promotion, Grace was the obvious choice to replace Miss Longmire. She not only had the same experience and training as the others, she was a natural leader respected by the people she’d trained with.

  “I am pleased for you. I really am.” She rinsed the cups.

  Grace dried them. “How’s Julian?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” It was difficult not to betray her bitterness.

  “I thought you two were an item?”

  “He’ll write when he’s ready.”

  Grace was surprised. “Does he know you were so ill?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Is that what’s wrong, Anne? You’re worried he’s not going to write?”

  “There’s a war on,” she stacked the cups away. “I’m going back to work.”

  “As you say, Anne.” Leading the way, Grace paused in the open doorway. “Just look at us.”

  What did she mean?

  “There’s a war on,” Grace surveyed the cramped benches, “but who says we have to work in a sardine can?”

  Sardines in a can. Grace was right. How could they be expected to work here? Watching Grace cross the room and enter the office, she resumed her place at her bench.

  From a mere two feet behind, Sophie whispered. “Are you sure you should be back so soon, Anne?”

  “The doctor thinks so.” Although, after this first hour, she wasn’t so sure.

  “You’re awfully pale.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Show no emotion.

  She managed another half hour before the scheduled morning tea break. The tiny staff room was uncomfortably crowded. Together, they squeezed awkwardly into the chairs packed around the table. Except for Sophie, who propped on the floor against the lockers.

  Distracted by the barred window, she distantly heard their gossip; boy friends, war, sisters in the services, mothers knitting khaki woolens and joining volunteer services, fathers called up, brothers away fighting or temporarily on leave. What had caused the destruction outside the window? Who had caused it? Where was Julian? Why hadn’t he written?

  “Time’s up.” Sophie bounced to her feet. “Coming, Anne?”

  “Lock your bag away, Anne,” Joan advised.

  “What?”

  “Lock your bag in your locker,” Margaret answered.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “We’ve got problems,” Helen explained.

  “What do you mean - problems?”

  “They’re exaggerating,” Sophie glared. “Joan says she’s had money taken from her purse. Helen believes her.”

  “So do I.” Lillian agreed. “Lock your locker, Anne.”

  “I can’t do that!”

  “Suit yourself,” Joan grimaced. “It’s your funeral.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” Lillian added. “Sophie doesn’t believe us. But she locks her locker.”

  Everything was not the same.

  Chapter Six

  Christmas 1942:

  ‘This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.’

  Winston Churchill, following the November victory at El Alemain.

  The Russian Army was driving the Nazis back from the Don, Tobruk had been recaptured by the Allies, and in November General Bernard Montgomery had scored a notable victory at El Alamein.

  Yet, despite the few glimmers of good news, each newscast deepened despair. What had started out, at least in the minds of some, as high adventure and righteous crusade had become universal nightmare. Filtering through the barricade of censorship was news of Japanese atrocities too horrific to believe, of German brutality, secret torture, civilians bombed, cities razed.

  How long before Australians were fighting on their own land? Already loyalties had shifted. For the first time in history a British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, had visited Russia while still in office. Russia’s agony could have been Britain’s, but Hitler had turned to the East. ‘Uncle Joe’ Stalin was a hero. The Australian Government had lifted its ban on the Australian Communist Party.

  Still she heard no word from Julian. At night, when no one could hear, she cried herself to sleep. Even if his Party was now legal, it did not excuse the things he had done. Whatever they were.

  The last note of ‘Silent Night’ soothed the uneasy air. Hushed and sadly somber for the Christmas season, the congregation began to file from St Margaret’s. Reluctant to disturb them, Anne began to repeat the plaintive melody of the ancient carol.

  Having prematurely anticipated his organist’s introduction to the rousing recessional hymn, the choir master frowned, lowered his poised baton, and tapped impatiently at the music stand. It was an order - Anne was required to cease the carol and introduce the recessional.

  No suitable replacement organist had been found. A mixed blessing, it gave her the power to joyfully disobey the angry little dictator. She therefore re-set the stops to evoke an even more sonorous tone, and yet again played ‘Silent Night’. The leading tenor, catching the mood, began to sing again. The choir tentatively joined in.

  Over-ruled, the choir master re-lifted his baton and the choir, gaining confidence, softly repeated another chorus. ‘Silent Night’ had won the moment and the haunting final chorus filled t
he brooding air with melancholy appropriate, not to the season, but to the desperate times.

  In the body of the church the exiting stragglers, arrested by the moving beauty of the muted voices, turned, stopped, and listened. For a single stirring minute, as the sun filtering through the windows illuminated their enthralled faces, Anne experienced the spine-tingling appreciation of perfection.

  The carol ended.

  The silence, warmed by the sun and spiced with the scent of flowers and incense, was complete. No one moved. Both choir and captured audience seemed momentarily spell-bound.

  For the very first time in her limited experience she sensed the elemental essence of St Margaret’s inner life, the ineffably spiritual that had nothing to do with logic. Or even with the imagined ghosts of the past.

  The hush lengthened. The sunbeams danced on the dark timber pews and the austere cross and the unadorned altar. The golden eagle glowed. The faces by the front door were luminous. Until, again, the choir master rapped his baton against the brittle timber of the music stand.

  The spell was broken.

  Reluctantly responding to the choir master’s reprimand, Anne re-set the stops and pumped the tired old pedals. The reinvigorated organ wheezed, spluttered, and painfully built to a crescendo of sound which introduced the obligatory recessional hymn. The congregation resumed its slow retreat.

  Halfway through the first verse, the body of the church entirely empty, the choir master waved the choir to a halt, and hurried through the back door to the adjoining change room.

  “He’s in a hurry.”

  “Christmas dinner.”

  She watched the choir members follow their master’s flying robes.

  “Come along, Anne.” The Vicar was waiting to lock up.

  “Merry Christmas, Sir.” Since their discussion months ago she’d lost the remaining remnants of awe of him.

  “You too, Anne.” He waited as she threw off the robe and cap and hung them on their hook, then locked the door and followed her onto the emerald lawn leading to the front gate. “Will all your family be home for Christmas?”

  “Dad got in last night. June’s still up North.”

  “June? That’s your sister? She’s away nursing?” He was lugubriously sorrowful. “Poor young generation. These are such very difficult times.”

  “She’s enjoying it.”

  “Is that so?” He shook disbelieving grey locks. “One never knows. Ah!” Catching sight of the young soldier who habitually sat by the front door, his face lit up. “Here you are, Gary. I thought I’d catch you here.”

  The skinny young man in the baggy khaki uniform and heavy boots didn’t interest her. She’d seen him every Sunday since winter. Always with Mr and Mrs Hill. Though not today. This morning, in his usual place, he’d been alone. She started to move away, but the Vicar ushered her forward.

  “You young folk haven’t met, have you?” The Vicar introduced them. “Anne, meet Gary Walker. Gary, this is Anne.”

  Up close, his skin was pale, his hair mousy and his brown eyes shadowed and unhealthy. Whatever his wounds, they were taking a long time to heal.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Belying his appearance, his hand-shake was firm.

  “You’ve been coming a while.” Because the Vicar was watching, she feigned interest. “I’ve seen you most Sundays.”

  “I’ve seen you too. Except for a few weeks back.” The yellow skin flushed. “We missed the music.”

  “Anne was very ill,” the Vicar explained. “Poor child, she had us all worried.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gary Walker sympathised. “Are you all right now?”

  “She’s on the road to recovery,” the Vicar answered for her. “Gary’s been ill too, Anne. Poor fellow was wounded while in the Middle East.”

  “It must have been bad.” She was carefully impersonal. “You’ve been here for months.”

  “It wasn’t much.” Flushing, he uneasily shifted boots too heavy for his skinny frame.

  “Gary’s to be with us for Christmas dinner. His Aunt and Uncle are away. He’s alone. One shouldn’t be alone for Christmas. My wife will be preparing. There’s no hurry.” The old man obviously wanted to prolong the conversation, probably because his wife needed time to complete preparations.

  “Couldn’t you go home?” She itched to be away, but the Vicar was standing between her and the exit.

  “I would if I could. I couldn’t get leave. It’s too far away.”

  “He lives in the West. West Australia, do you see.”

  “I’ve never been there.” She stole an impatient glance at the empty tram stop beyond the gate. “What’s it like?”

  “Great.”

  “Ah! The West…” The Vicar, as though still in the pulpit, droned on. Gary interposed polite comment. Anne switched off.

  In the background St Margaret’s brooded. Finally consulting his watch, the Vicar exclaimed: “My goodness! Time does fly. The cooks in our respective households will be waxing anxious. Meanwhile you, young Miss Preston, have a way to walk. You’ve missed your tram.”

  “I’d rather walk.”

  “Not only that,” he attempted humour. “You will have missed out on all the preparations. Your mother will have done all the work.”

  “Nice to meet you, Gary.”

  “Likewise.” The young soldier’s smile was wan. “I’ll see you next Sunday.”

  Unsettled by the pale skin and the wounded eyes and the supreme patience with the boring Vicar, she turned away. At the gate, she turned back for her customary farewell to St Margaret.

  The Vicar was already trudging across his immaculate lawns towards the vicarage. Gary Walker, cap in hand and eyes lowered, had not moved. She felt sorry for him. How could anyone happily anticipate Christmas dinner with such a pompous old bore?

  She ran back. “Vicar! Wait a minute! What about if he comes with me?”

  “What a perfectly grand idea!” Patently relieved, the Vicar wished them well and continued on his way to formal dinner and waiting wife.

  “Thank you.” Gary Walker held the gate open for her. “I’m very grateful.”

  “I couldn’t leave you to them. Not on Christmas Day.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Mum always cooks too much. Don’t worry.”

  “I’ve never even met them.”

  “Neither have the other people I’ve invited. Don’t worry.”

  He walked slowly and unevenly at her side.

  “Sorry about the tram,” she apologised. “Were you wounded in the leg? Is it still painful?”

  “Not on hot days.”

  Riding towards its noon peak, the sun stood high in a cloudless blue sky. The streets were almost empty.

  “I always walk,” Anne told him. “In my job you have to make sure you get enough exercise.”

  “What job is that?”

  She explained, and asked: “What did you do before the War?”

  “Plumber. I’m a plumber.”

  Nearing home, the labrador barked her customary welcome and the hysterical terrier tore noisily up and down the fence.

  “We’re here.” Stopping at Number 12, she held open the gate. “You don’t look like a tradesman.”

  “It’s a good trade. There’s always plumbing needed. Even in the bad times.” Careful of the uneven rise from street to path, he passed through the gate. “That’s if…”

  Belatedly aware he’d left the words hanging, she closed the gate. “If what?”

  “Nothing.”

  She led the way down the side path to the back door. “They won’t make you go back to fight after being badly wounded.”

  “Want a bet?”

  “They couldn’t do that!” No wonder he was so unhappy. “Was it too awful?”

  “It wasn’t good. Forget it. It’s Christmas.”

  Together they went inside, into the kitchen and the furious wood stove and the smells of stuffed chicken and plum pudding and her mother’s red face and flour
ed hands.

  After welcoming the unexpected guest, her mother waved them on: “Your father’s in the living room, Anne.”

  Jim Preston folded his newspaper and stood, hand outstretched. “Welcome to Christmas Dinner, son. I heard Mother. Glad to have the company.”

  No problems. She hadn’t expected any. The war had made a difference. Strangers were welcome, especially strangers in uniform. The pre-war constrictions, when only invited guests were welcome, had long gone. There were risks. There was also the excitement of not knowing what, or who, was around the next corner. Gary Walker looked, and acted, boringly dull and harmless. All the same - who knew what he was really like? Consider Julian.

  Satisfied there was no cause to worry, she left Gary with her father, changed into a cool sun frock, covered it with a large apron, and returned to the kitchen; even with the windows and doors open the room had to be nearly as hot as the inside of the oven. Her mother had scraped together enough food for the traditional Christmas dinner. She’d been saving food coupons, stocking the pantry, and preparing for months. The war-time glass-ware and cutlery had been relegated to the back of the cupboard. For this special day she’d taken her treasures from their war-time haven. The embroidered table cloth and napkins had been laundered and starched, the silver polished until you could see your face it, the dinner set and the best crystal re-cleaned until they sparkled.

  This Christmas dinner was a very special occasion. Not only was her father home on leave, but there were to be very special guests. Already on the living room table were the fine lace cloth, the polished silver, the glistening crystal and bowls of red camellias gathered at dawn.

  She was setting the extra cutlery in place, when the front door bell rang. Quickly removing the unsightly apron, she went to answer it.

  “Am I too early?” Grace, a huge bouquet of roses hiding her face, was flanked by her two sons. “I brought these for your mother.”

  Wearing a white summer frock and high fashion sandals, Grace was smooth and elegant and sophisticated and totally out of place. Her smooth blonde chignon, clear cream skin, tawny eyes, perfect figure and seductive perfume did not belong in this dumpy suburban street. Nor did her equally handsome, equally well-groomed, children and the shiny grey car out the front. Toby was barking up a storm and there were startled faces at windows across the road