Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  The house seemed suddenly small, scruffy and down-at-heel, and the table in the living room ludicrously overdressed. Infinitely more disturbing was the contrast between Grace and her mother.

  How could she have been so stupid? Why had she invited her? Grace belonged to the laboratory, and to a house filled with thick carpets and chandeliers. Grace was upper class. Grace’s friendship was the easy friendship of co-workers. Nothing more, nothing less, and nothing to do with their private lives. How had she managed to fool herself into thinking otherwise? Asking her out here was as senseless as inviting Royalty to the slums. Less. Royalty had a duty to visit the slums, the people of Grace’s world hadn’t.

  Yet, when she introduced her to her parents and Gary, Grace didn’t seem to mind; she was instantly at ease. As were her sons. Eight year old James, blonde-haired, tawny eyed, slimly built and totally at ease in this new situation had inherited his mother’s charm and good looks. Six-year old Charles, though dark haired, brown eyed, chubby and less attractive, was equally comfortable in this unfamiliar place.

  During the meal, sitting opposite her guests, watching the two perfectly behaved boys gravely search for three-pences in their pudding, she longed for the endless day to be over. As for conversation, what else could she have expected? Inevitably, no matter who attempted a digression, all roads led to the war. Impossible to start in on even the most innocuous interchange that didn’t end up with it; the fall of Singapore, the withdrawal from the Philippines, New Guinea, Macarthur, Americans in Melbourne.......

  Near the meal’s end, her mother attempted to turn the tide: “I suppose your boys miss their father, Grace. Anne didn’t say which Service he was in.”

  “Mum!” Anne warned.

  “What? What now? He’s not ....? Oh dear! I am sorry, Grace.”

  “It’s all right, Anne,” Grace reassured before answering her hostess. “No, Mrs Preston. The boys’ father is not dead. Nor missing in action. Or anything dramatic. He’s alive and well and warming the seat behind a desk in Canberra. It seems Anne hasn’t told you. We’re divorced.”

  In the small dining room conversation ceased. The sudden absence of sound was absolute, except for the intrusive thunder of summer flies buzzing at the open window’s protective fly-wire screen.

  She’d been careful not to tell her parents her friend was a divorcee. Yet here was Grace shouting it to the world, and her sons hadn’t even for a second stopped searching for three-penny pieces they surely didn’t need.

  May Preston hurriedly veiled embarrassed eyes.

  Jim Preston, recovering, turned to Gary: “Son - I hear your aunt and uncle are holidaying at Lorne?”

  Gary Walker squirmed, blinked sympathy to Grace, and answered: “Yes, sir. They’d planned it long before they knew I’d be staying with them. It’s an annual thing.”

  “Lorne. I remember…” Gratefully embracing the diversion, May contrived to ensure the conversation did not revert to the awkward subject of divorce.

  The embarrassing moment ended, Anne gathered empty dishes and retreated to the kitchen.

  Grace followed. “I’m so sorry, Anne. I didn’t think.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I do worry. It never occurred to me they wouldn’t accept it.”

  She scraped left-overs into the rubbish bin. “It’s a shock.”

  “They must know other divorcees!”

  “Not out here, Grace. Not where we live. It isn’t done.”

  “Even if the marriage is unbearable?”

  “They’ve never met anyone like you. Let alone someone who’s been divorced. Neither had I. If it hadn’t been for the laboratory…”

  “Grace!” Hurrying in from the living room, May interrupted. “You shouldn’t be in the kitchen! You’re a guest.”

  “I’d like to help. If you don’t mind.”

  Collecting the kettle from the cooling stove, May poured hot water into the sink, lathered the soap, and started in on the mountain of dishes.

  “You’re a marvellous cook, Mrs Preston.” Grace lifted a clean towel from its rack. “I’m so appreciative of your invitation. Especially for the boys.”

  “They are enjoying themselves.”

  “You’ve filled a sad gap for us. If only my parents were here.”

  “Oh?”

  “I miss them terribly. They’re in England.”

  “We’ve missed our June.”

  “June - she’s up North?”

  “You haven’t met June. You two would get on. She likes adventure. I can’t say I’m too happy about it. Still… We all have to pull our weight, don’t we? Like Jim, too. You know he’s...”

  She was relieved. Their conversation was safe, without controversy. Grace’s charm seemed to be winning her mother who, at least for the moment, was being careful not to offend her guest. Fair enough. It was Christmas. But never again. Grace’s world was not her world, or her family’s world. This one day was all there was going to be.

  No one felt like moving. Following the heavy meal and the long task of clearing up after it everyone was sitting in deck chairs on the back summer-brown lawn. The two boys were playing with a mecchano set her father had borrowed from Brenda next door. Over-head, the leaves of the wide-spreading gum tree sheltered them from the fiery mid-afternoon sun.

  “We’ll have to go soon.” Grace beckoned her sons.

  “You’re welcome to stay for tea,” May invited.

  “Thank you, no.” Grace smiled. “You’ve been so kind. We really have to be back home. There’s a street party. It’s traditional. It’s so important keep up what we can manage. Especially these days.”

  “Mummy,” James left his game. “Can’t we stay?”

  “I’m afraid not, dear. It’s over an hour’s driving. We are expected, you know.”

  “I like it here.”

  “So do I,” Grace agreed. “I’m sorry to have to leave. Perhaps we can visit another day?”

  “Please. Do.”

  She winced. Why did her mother have to be so unnecessarily rude? Her ability to say one thing and mean the other had been finely honed. No one could doubt the real meaning of the two superficially polite words. It was clear. Despite Grace’s charm, she and her fatherless children were not welcome to visit another day.

  Flushing, she looked to Grace who was attending to her sons. Had she understood her mother’s message? Of course she had. But she’d never let her mother know it.

  “They can visit us,” Charles perched on his mother’s knee. “It’s our turn next, Mummy.”

  “What a good idea,” Grace agreed. “We’ll work something out.”

  “When?” James, too, left the game. “Can Anne come soon, Mum?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “That’s what you always say.” James understood what he was hearing.

  Grace smoothed her son’s blonde hair. “Where will you be for New Year, Anne?”

  “Here. Where else? Why?”

  “No particular reason.”

  “She should come to our place,” James insisted.

  “Not this time. You know you’re going to be with your father. You’ll be….”

  “When?” James stood his ground. “When can she come?”

  Grace eased Charles from her lap. “Behave yourself, James.”

  “You’re not fair! I hate you! You’re not fair!”

  Jim Preston frowned. Gary looked embarrassed. Anne looked away. May suggested. “It’s been a long day. The poor child is over-tired.”

  “Not too tired for good manners,” Grace chided. “You will apologise at once, James.”

  The boy did not move.

  “James!”

  “It’s all right, Grace.” Jim Preston intervened. “Mother’s right. It’s been a long day.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr Preston.” Grace stood her ground. “It’s not all right. He knows better. Apologise, James. Then pack up.”

  “I only want to know....”

  She slapped him,
a light tap on his hand.

  “I’m sorry.” The boy surrendered.

  May Preston nodded approval.

  “That’s better, dear.” Grace smiled. “Now pack away the mecchano set.”

  “I’ll help,” Anne knelt.

  “I’d rather you didn’t, Anne.”

  About to collect pieces of the set, she paused.

  “She’s right, Anne. Leave it.” One mother defending another, May sided with Grace. “Tiredness is no excuse for bad manners.”

  She resumed her seat. Jim resumed his conversation with Gary.

  His task completed, James carried the box of mecchano pieces to May. “She shouldn’t tell lies,” he glared at his mother. “My Dad’s in the war, too.”

  “My goodness, James.” Grace’s composure was impregnable. “You are in a state.”

  “My father’s a soldier!”

  “Of course he is,” Grace agreed. “He’s working in an office in Canberra. You know that. He’s not in the fighting.”

  “He was,” James stood his ground. “He got wounded. He’s a good fighter.”

  “I’m sure your father’s doing his best,” May sought to reassure the youngster.

  “Pack your things, boys.” Gathering her handbag, Grace supervised their farewells, and again thanked her hosts. “You must come over one day, Anne.”

  She didn’t mean it, no more than her mother had meant her insincere ‘Please do.’ How could she? Apart from work, they did not belong together. Grace must have been desperately lonely to have accepted the invitation to Christmas dinner.

  So why was she feeling guilty? Because of her mother? It wasn’t necessary. Both her mother and Grace knew what she was still learning. Nothing was going to bridge the chasm between upper and lower class, wealth and poverty, private school and public school. What would Julian have made of today? She missed him.

  Following the hurried goodbyes, the two reluctant boys were rushed to the front gate and into the sleek car waiting out front. Moments later Gary followed. Thank God he knew when to go. There was still all the cleaning up to be done, and no June at home to help do it.

  “A pleasant lad, Gary. He’s either very thoughtful or nowhere near recovered from his wounds.” Jim Preston paused for further thought. “Both, I reckon. How about it, Anne?”

  She and her father were sitting in the half light of the reading lamp. They’d been listening to the broadcast of Handel’s Messiah. Her mother was already in bed.

  “Nice lad.” Jim rolled a cigarette, wiped stray strands of tobacco from his sun-burned lips, struck a match, watched the cigarette end begin to glow, and contentedly inhaled. He habitually saved his last cigarette for when his disapproving wife was in bed.

  “Gary’s alright.” She agreed.

  “But not like Julian?”

  “No-one’s like Julian.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jim mused. “Is he coming back?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “Do you mind some considered advice?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Forget him, Anne.”

  “It’s easy enough to say.”

  “I’ve been around a long time, Anne. Forget this one.”

  It was most unusual; her father seldom spoke so forcefully.

  “Will you give it some thought?”

  “Mum doesn’t like him either.”

  “It’s not that we don’t like him. It’s lots of things. His age, for one. Your mother’s instincts are good. You should listen to her.”

  “It’s not up to me,” she reluctantly admitted. “He hasn’t even written.”

  “That Gary’s a nice young fellow. He fitted in really well. He’s our sort.”

  “You’re not very subtle, Dad.”

  “I like someone, I say so.”

  “You didn’t like Grace.”

  Not answering, he watched the fading blue rings of smoke curl towards the ceiling.

  “It stuck out a mile,” she needed his answer.

  “You don’t have to be a genius to work it out, Anne. She’s too posh for us.”

  “She’s my best friend at work.”

  “Fair enough. Work friends don’t have to be home friends.”

  “I know. I learned that today.”

  “Think about it,” her father suggested. “Your friend Grace…. She’s a bit like Julian, you know. Not our type at all.”

  Not at all subtle. But her father cared about her. His disapproval of Grace as a friend would be out of concern for his daughter’s well being. As were his reservations about Julian. She needed to listen. Despite his idealistic belief in equality, Julian came from the same elite world as Grace.

  “Does that upset you Anne?”

  “A bit,” she acknowledged. “Yes - I guess I am upset.”

  “You should think about Gary, girl.” He stubbed his cigarette. “How about a cup of tea before we turn in?”

  Chapter Seven

  1943

  March 22nd:

  Women munitions workers in Melbourne have gone on strike in a bid to win pay rates equal to 90% of those paid to men in the industry.

  The Women’s employment Board and the Australian Court have ruled they have no jurisdiction on the claim.

  Her monthly period, with its inevitable painful cramps, had arrived early. Going home was not an option. The bus was not due for hours, and the only other transport was a taxi. It was not an option. Apart from the expense would be the embarrassment of again having everyone know she was unwell. She swallowed a couple of aspirin, was late coming in from the lunch break, and hoped no one would make a fuss.

  They didn’t even see her. When she returned, everyone’s attention was focused on the office.

  “What’s going on?” Settling at her bench, she set out her work sheet.

  “It’s Helen’s mother. She’s on the war path.” Joan was intent on the slips of precision-tooled metal she was polishing.

  Though the office door was closed, the window blinds had not been drawn. Confronting Macklin and Grace, both seated at Macklin’s desk, was Helen’s mother. A big-boned blonde-haired woman, her blue eyes were blazing and her ham hands flapping.

  “What on earth is she on about?”

  “Sh.” Joan did not look up. “Don’t let them see you watching.”

  It was impossible not to watch. Seeing Anne through the window, Mrs Griswald shut her mouth, tucked her fists into her pockets, and returned her attention to Macklin and Grace.

  “Get to work, Anne.” Lillian called from the opposite bench.

  “I can’t concentrate.” She threw down her pen.

  “Pretend,” Joan advised.

  Sophie covered her gauge and pushed her reports aside. “Speak for yourself.”

  The continuing sight of the muffled altercation in the office was mesmerising. Work became impossible.

  “Hell!” Margaret, too, covered her work. “I’m going to make a pot of tea. Anyone want one?”

  “Me.” Lillian followed.

  “Count me in.” Joan looked to Anne. “What about you?”

  “Later.”

  “I know you,” Joan smirked. “You’re frightened you’ll miss something.”

  “That’s not fair!” The aspirin was wearing off, the stomach cramps returning. Three hours to go. The hands on her watch seemed to have stuck at two o’clock. Compelling herself to concentrate, she returned to the exacting work. The hands of the watch crawled through a long fifteen minutes. The door to the staffroom remained closed.

  She was still alone when the resounding crack of the office door slamming wheeled her to attention. Macklin and Grace were still in the office. Mrs Griswald was making an outraged exit into the laboratory.

  “The girls?” Mrs Griswald was at her side. “Where are the girls?”

  “They’re in the staff room. Do you want to see them?”

  “I’d like to…” Mrs Griswald stopped. “Anne! You’re not well! What’s wrong?”

  “
I’ve had a cold. It’s just a cold.”

  “My dear, you look dreadful. You should be home in bed.”

  “Maybe tomorrow….”

  “Helen’s ill, too. It’s this place. It’s appalling!”

  “It’s not that. It’s….”

  “Do be careful, Anne. It’s not just the air conditioning. Look at it! There’s not enough room to swing a cat!”

  Helen’s mother inspected the jammed-in benches, the water-stained ceiling, the flaking kalsomine, the over-packed shelves, the jumbled papers and the precision equipment fighting for impossibly limited space on the inadequate bench-tops.

  “Not fit for a pig!” Mrs Griswald cried. “How can you work here? No wonder you’re all ill.”

  She didn’t argue.

  “What’s that smell?” Sniffing the pervasive stench of mould, Mrs Griswald’s rage was mounting.

  She cringed.

  “Anne? What’s the smell?”

  “It’s from the explosion. The rubbish…”

  “I saw it. Why hasn’t something been done?”

  “Mrs Griswald!” Jeffrey Macklin limped from the office.

  “This is intolerable!”

  “As I have already told you, Madam. Everything is being done that can be done.”

  “It doesn’t look like it. The smell is atrocious.”

  “I assure you - the matter is in hand.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it!” Mrs Griswald stormed out through the exit door.

  “The woman is a trouble maker, Miss Preston,” Macklin ordered. “Ignore her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He inspected the empty room. “Where are all our young ladies?”

  “They took a break.” Perspiration coating her face, she forced the words through lips stiff with pain.

  “Humph.” Macklin started for the staff room, changed his mind, reversed, and zig-zagged back between the work stations towards the office where Grace was waiting. “Tell them to hurry on, if you will, Miss Preston.”

  Either he hadn’t noticed her distress, or he’d chosen not to. Back in the office, the window still uncovered, he took his place behind the desk and started talking to Grace.

  They’d be talking about Mrs Griswald. Were there really plans to clean up the mess outside? Or was it just a way to be rid of the trouble-maker? Didn’t people understand protest was useless? Didn’t they understand that shouting and doctor’s certificates and clear evidence that the place was criminally inappropriate was a waste of energy and time? Every time someone protested the answer was the same - ‘There’s a war on.’