Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  “Anne!” Her mother, finger to lips, was at the open front door. “Please hush!”

  Next door, Toby was still barking.

  “Did you see him, Mum? Did you see him?”

  “Sh, Anne! You’ll wake him. What happened? I’ve been waiting.”

  “I’m all right. There was…”

  “You’re here now. Thank God!”

  “But there was a…”

  “Not now, dear.”

  “But there was..!”

  “Get changed, Anne. Quickly!”

  “But Mum! A man was …”

  “Do as you’re told! Quickly! I need you!”

  Her mother wasn’t making sense. The house wasn’t making sense. Brilliant light from the open front door was pouring across the front lawn and into the shadowed street.

  She closed the front door. “What’s wrong, Mum?”

  “Leave him sleep, Anne. Your father…”

  “Dad’s home!” She started for the bedroom.

  May barred the way. “There’s been an accident.”

  “What happened?” She felt faint.

  Her mother steadied her. “He’s alright. He’s asleep.”

  “What happened? What kind of accident?”

  “Sh! You mustn’t disturb him, dear.”

  “What happened? Who brought him home? Where’s the doctor?”

  “June’s got leave. Did I tell you? June’s coming home. She got compassionate leave.”

  “Why can’t I see him?”

  “You can, dear. You must be very quiet.” Her mother stepped aside.

  The light from the bedside lamp shone on her father’s sleeping face and on his hands; thickly bandaged. He was snoring heavily. Her mother’s fear of waking him was unwarranted.

  “What happened?”

  “I thought you’d never get here.” May whispered. “I thought you’d never get here. Did I tell you June’s got leave? We phoned.”

  “What happened to his hands?”

  “Doctor Matthews fixed it so June got leave. He’ll have to be nursed round the clock. He could have been killed!”

  “Mum! What happened!”

  “I was all right.” Her mother was crying. “Truly Anne, I was managing all right. I heard you running. It was you? That stupid dog. He could have woken Dad. That dog. It should be put down.”

  “I’ll get the doctor, Mum. You should have something.”

  “Please don’t fuss, dear. I’m all right. Truly.”

  “You’re not all right. The doctor will give you something to calm you down.”

  “You mustn’t bother him again. He’s been. They called him before they brought Dad home. He’s had an injection for the pain.”

  “What pain? What’s wrong with his hands?”

  “It’s his hands, Anne. There was a fire. An explosion. He could have been killed.”

  She should have been home on time.

  “He was very brave. They said he was very brave. He pulled some of them out. That’s how his hands… He was very brave…”

  “You can’t look after him, Mum. Why isn’t he in the hospital?”

  “It was an explosion. Did I tell you it was an explosion?”

  “I don’t understand. Why didn’t they take him to hospital?”

  “One man died. One of Dad’s mates died.”

  “How long have you been waiting for me?”

  “He died, Anne. It could have been your father. They telephoned next door. He was on his way. They flew him down. Brenda came in. Everyone’s been wonderful. Brenda’s…”

  “Why isn’t he in hospital!”

  “Stop harping, Anne!”

  The snoring ceased, her father moaned.

  “You’re disturbing him.” May stroked her husband’s unconscious face. “Sh….Jim… sh…”

  She dare not move. Slowly, the rhythmic snoring resumed.

  Reassured, May turned away. “I’m sorry, Anne. I’m not myself.”

  “I’ll get changed.” She started from the room.

  “You’re wet through!” May hurried after her. “What have you been up to?”

  “I missed the tram. If it was very serious he’d be in hospital, wouldn’t he?”

  “I heard you running. I heard the dog and I heard you running. I was waiting…”

  “You heard me running?”

  “I heard the dog. And I heard… It wasn’t you?”

  “I had bare feet. It wasn’t me you heard.”

  “The dog was very excited. I thought he’d disturb your father. He’s been in a lot of pain.” May started back to the bedroom. “You shouldn’t run around bare foot. Get changed. I’ll be here if you need me.”

  “I’ll make us some tea.” Quickly, she changed, made a pot of tea and sandwiches and carried the tray into the bedroom.

  Her father was still snoring, apparently at rest.

  She set the tray on the side table. “When’s June coming?”

  “Tomorrow. She’ll appreciate a bit of time at home.”

  “I could take time off too.”

  “We’ll manage, Anne. You’ve already had too much sick leave as it is. You’ll be doing your share. We all will.”

  “I can sit with him tonight. You get some sleep.”

  “I couldn’t possibly!”

  “You need to be fit when he wakes, Mum. I’ll call you if he wakes.”

  May hesitated.

  “It’s the sensible thing to do, Mum.”

  “You’re right. I’ll be in June’s bed. Call me when he wakes.”

  Wrapping a blanket tightly around her freezing body, she curled into the comfortable chair. Though she tried to stay awake, she was asleep when her father’s startled cry of pain snapped her to attention.

  “Anne?” He tried to focus. “Is that you, Anne?”

  “I’ll call Mum.” She threw back the blanket.

  “Wait…”

  “What, Dad? What is it? I’ll get Mum.”

  The bandaged hands resting on the blanket quivered. “No….”

  “Hold still, Dad! Don’t try to move.”

  “Time….?”

  “Dad… Please…. Let me get Mum.”

  His voice strengthened: “What time?”

  “It’s just after four. Let me get Mum. Please!”

  “Afternoon?”

  “Morning, Dad. Four a.m. I’ll get Mum.”

  “No.”

  “You’re in pain!”

  “Let her sleep.” He again fell into a restless sleep, disturbed by increasingly frequent spells of painful consciousness.

  From outdoors the only sounds were the muffled plod of horse and cart, the hushed scurry of the milkman’s delivery, and the distant clatter of the early trams. Saturday morning would soon wind up to its bustling introduction to the weekend.

  Although her father’s intensifying agony seemed almost unendurable, its only signs were those his strong will was unable control; the river of sweat saturating the sheets and the violent spasms regularly shaking his whole body.

  Just before seven, fleeing the room, she woke her mother. “You’ll have to come. I can’t bear it!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t stand it! I can’t bear to see him in so much pain! Do something!”

  “Stay with him while I go next door to phone the doctor.”

  “I can’t!”

  “For God’s sake, Anne! Get back to him!”

  Unable to obey, she rushed to her bedroom and sobbed until she slept.

  “Anne!” Her mother’s stern voice woke her.

  She sat up. “How’s Dad?”

  “He’s asleep again. Doctor’s been.”

  “Why isn’t he in hospital?”

  “He’s better here. June and I can nurse him.”

  It bit deep. June and her mother were fit to care for her father. She wasn’t. Her mother would say no more about this morning’s desertion. She didn’t need to.

  “June will be here soon. Get dressed. I need
help with the house.”

  It wasn’t fair. She’d been tired and scared. It was no excuse. Sick with shame, she threw off the warm blankets and went to help her mother.

  Arriving in the early afternoon, June took control of the sick room. Once the initial greetings were over, there wasn’t even time to talk. In a crisis June could be relied on. Even if she was dropping from exhaustion, even if she’d had a terrible scare, even if she was petrified with fear, June would never run away.

  After sleeping through the entire afternoon she woke to a semi-dark room, lit only by the last pink rays of the setting sun. Around her the house was hushed. From outside there was the song of the first evening bird, nothing else. Even the traffic was momentarily still. Where was everybody?

  About to leave the room, she caught sight of the letter. It was propped against the dressing-table mirror where it had been placed while she slept.

  The address and the name were printed in strong black script. Distinctive and authoritative, Julian’s writing was unmistakable. Heart pounding, she tore it open.

  It began ‘Dear Anne,’ and ended ‘Regards Julian’.

  Regards! She read the few intervening words: ‘I’ll be back in Melbourne soon. I’ll contact you.’

  Angry and confused, she threw the crumpled letter to the floor. At tea her mother made no mention of it. Nor did she. She’d eaten and was on her way to again sit with her father when, hearing a knock on the back door, she went to it.

  “I thought you’d be ready,” Gary eyed her slippers and casual house clothes.

  “I’m sorry Gary. Dad’s been in an accident. It’s my turn to give June and Mum a break. I’ll…”

  “Is that Gary?” May called. “I’d forgotten. You two are off to the movies.”

  “I’m sorry to hear about Mr Preston. What happened?”

  “Gary has to go, Mum. I’ll tell him.”

  “Get your coat, Anne. Don’t keep your young man waiting.”

  “I’m not going. I can’t leave…”

  “Nonsense. It’ll do you good. June and I can cope.”

  She wasn’t needed. She wasn’t even wanted.

  Half an hour late, by the lights of a lowered torch, she followed Gary and the usher to their seats in the darkened theatre. No one could see her careless make-up, loosely arranged hair, unpolished shoes, and inadequately ironed frock. Gary hadn’t even noticed; unlike Julian, who saw too much.

  Julian. She’d talked to no one about the letter and had no idea who’d placed it on her dressing-table, her mother or June. Even though she was angry about its brevity, the news was too good to share with the people who didn’t like him. Concentration impossible, she fidgeted restlessly.

  At interval, waiting in the queue at the bar, Gary surrendered: “Would you rather go home?”

  “Why?”

  “Your mind is on your father. You should have stayed at home.”

  “Do you mind if we don’t get a drink? I really don’t want anything, do you?”

  “If you’re that worried about your father, you shouldn’t be here with me.”

  “It’s not Dad!” She started the climb back up to the theatre balcony. At the top she turned.

  Gary had not moved. He was still at the foot of the steep stair-case, the khaki cap square on his cropped head, his eyes quietly wary.

  “What’s wrong?” She descended to his side. “You’re different tonight.”

  “I thought it was you.”

  “So would you be if your father was nearly killed.”

  “You said your father wasn’t on your mind.”

  “I never said that!” The foyer was empty, the lights low. Except for the staff cleaning up after the busy interval, they were alone. “I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have let you drag me out”

  “That’s not fair, Anne! You had a choice.”

  “So I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You said this wasn’t about your father.”

  “I lied.” It was easier than talking about Julian’s letter.

  “Sometimes you’re not a very nice person, Anne.”

  “You don’t have to stay with me.”

  “You’re right.” He took her arm. “I’ll see you to your gate.”

  Pulling free, she rushed from the theatre.

  “It’s dark.” He caught up with her. “You can’t go off alone.”

  “Watch me!” She’d crossed the road and was far ahead before recollection of last night’s running footsteps halted her. He was right, she dare not go off alone.

  Again he caught up with her. “I know you’re upset about something. Not just your father.”

  “Why can’t you just back off?”

  “I’m worried about you. Something’s really bothering you.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “You’re right.” He fell a step behind.

  “If you must know - Julian’s coming back. And I’m not upset, if that’s what you think.”

  Continuing on their way the only sounds, eerily echoing in the lonely night, were the rhythmic tapping of her sharp heels and the uneven plodding of his heavy boots.

  Uncomfortable, she finally prodded: “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “You’re sulking.” Quickly relenting, she apologised: “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” He grasped her hand. “I honestly thought you’d get over him.”

  “I always told you he was my boy friend. I never told you anything different.”

  “I’m not saying you did.”

  “I’m sorry.” She really was.

  “Can I say something, Anne? Will you listen?”

  “Try me.”

  “Don’t let Julian hurt you again.”

  “Who told you that? Mum! She doesn’t like him.”

  “Your father told me about him.”

  “You’re upset about Dad!” Of course. Gary and her father had become close friends.

  “We got on. He’s a good bloke.”

  “So is Julian.” Throwing off his detaining hand, she strode ahead.

  The reassuring sounds of his heavy boots and, as they neared the house, the yapping of the alert terrier brought her safely to the front gate.

  Opening it, she asked: “What about next week?”

  “I don’t think so, Anne.”

  “I’m sorry, Gary. I don’t mean to be nasty.”

  “You shouldn’t have come tonight.”

  “Next time I’ll…”

  “Julian will be here.”

  It was true.

  “I’ll call around to ask about your Dad.”

  The sounds of the heavy boots retreating were accompanied by the predictable yapping of the watch-dog. Unexpectedly, she again felt the abysmal sense of abandonment. He was a good friend. She’d miss him. Yet she hadn’t even said that much to him.

  In the house there were no signs of movement. Her mother was asleep in the armchair by the bedside; her father was also asleep after an agonising day punctuated by regular pain-killing injections whose effectiveness had been limited. He should be in hospital.

  From June’s room she could hear the late news on the wireless. In her own room the bed had been turned down and fresh pyjamas had been set out; her mother’s way of saying goodnight.

  On the dressing-table, picked up from the floor where she’d thrown it, was Julian’s letter. Beside it, wrapped in its shiny blue paper with its matching card pinned to it, was Gary’s birthday present. She’d forgotten to give it to him. She’d even forgotten to wish him ‘happy birthday’. It was probably just as well.

  Again, she cried herself to sleep.

  Chapter Twelve

  1944

  January 23rd:

  Victoria. 21 people and 300,000 sheep have perished in bushfires in the Western District and Gippsland in the past month.

  Her father healed quickly. Gary visited him, but she managed to avoi
d him. Or maybe he avoided her? As well as the many friends who visited were officials asking questions. As an alternative to a gas or boiler malfunction, sabotage was being investigated.

  The steady stream of young men wearing formal suits kept her mother and June busy serving afternoon and morning teas at a few minutes notice. The absence of a telephone was becoming a serious disadvantage. Though she again offered to stay home to help, they insisted they could manage without her. Which, as always, they did.

  The interrogators’ questions were aimed at trying to ascertain the cause of the explosion which had ripped apart the hangars at the air field where her father worked. Her father could not help them. He’d been asleep at the time of the attack. The explosion had woken him and he’d raced to help. He was lucky to be alive. Each evening, when June and her mother were eating their tea, she sat with him. Most times, they didn’t talk. Sometimes she read to him, sometimes she read while he slept. When he did talk, he talked of old times, the happy pre-war days.

  Soon after Christmas, he began to talk about the future, about going back to his mates and getting on with the business of doing his bit for the war effort. He never talked about his injuries or the pain or the risk involved in going back. Why would he? They were all at risk.

  Acts of sabotage, if that was what it had been, could happen anywhere. The Japanese were bombing Northern Australia, Japanese submarines had been in Sydney Harbour. They could be closer! Planes that could fly to Darwin could land in the outback, refuel with the help of fifth columnists, and reach Melbourne. Submarines could reach Melbourne. They all had to get on with the job of keeping the Japanese away.

  She never told her father about the sabotage at the old laboratory, or her suspicions about Julian and her feelings of personal responsibility. This time she felt no personal responsibility. There was no possibility that Julian could be implicated in any sabotage at the air field. Though maybe the Communist Party was? Except that the Government had lifted the ban on the Australian Communist Party. Communism was no longer illegal. They’d have no reason to sabotage a war effort which would disadvantage Russia.

  So who was left? Easy. Nazis. Japanese. In Australia? They’d stick out like sore thumbs. Wouldn’t they? Not necessarily; Julian and his friends hadn’t stuck out at all. In any case, what had happened to her father was real violence. It wasn’t just talking, or practicing for something that was never even intended. Sabotage was actual violence.