Tools of War

by Dulcie M. Stone

  Turning the knob, he tiptoed into the room.

  May followed. “She’s still asleep.”

  “With her eyes open?” He bent over, gently shaking her. “Anne? Anne!”

  She lay on her back, the blue cotton quilt covering everything except her thin face. Her glazed eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

  “I’ll get the doctor!” May started for the door.

  “Nonsense.” Jim forcefully slapped the bed head, a sharp staccato alarm. “Wake up! Anne! Wake up!”

  Blinking, she focused dazed eyes on her father. “Dad! What’s wrong?”

  “You tell me.”

  She sat up. “I’ve been asleep.”

  “All day? What’s going on?”

  “You can deal with this.” Satisfied the doctor was not needed, May left the room.

  “What time is it?” Recovering the quilt which had fallen from her shoulders, Anne pulled it up against her face.

  “Look for yourself,” Jim frowned.

  Without concern, she looked at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s late.”

  “Yes, Anne. It’s very late. You’ve slept all day. What’s the matter with you?”

  She started to slide back down into the bed. “I’m just tired.”

  “You have to make an effort, Anne.”

  “I’m tired!”

  “It’s time we talked.” Gingerly, he eased himself onto the edge of the narrow bed. “Sit up and talk to me.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “You have to, Anne.”

  Obeying, she propped herself against the bed head.

  “You have to, Anne,” he repeated. “Because if you keep this up, they’ll be sending you off to the funny farm.”

  She hung her head. The long tangled hair fell across her face.

  “Anne!!! Look at me!”

  Recoiling, she cringed.

  “Oh hell... I’m sorry... We’re so worried.” He brushed helplessly at the tangled hair “Anne - you have to pull yourself together.”

  Whimpering, she pushed his hand away.

  Shocked, he sprang up.

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” she whispered. “Dad…. I’m sorry…”

  “Can’t you tell us? Tell us what’s wrong, Anne.”

  “I’m sorry…”

  “You must try, Anne. You really have to try.”

  “I’m tired.” Again she started to retreat.

  “Anne! Talk to me! Don’t do this. Tell me – what’s this about?”

  “Why? Why must I try?”

  “You can’t be serious! You have to get better! You have to try!”

  She turned away.

  “Don’t shut us out, love. Don’t. Please, Anne.”

  From the living room came the noisy clatter of crockery.

  “Your mother’s upset, too.” He started for the door. “Get dressed, Anne. Come to tea. That’s an order.”

  She waited until she heard the door close before slipping back under the covers. But sleep eluded her. Her father was rarely forceful. He didn’t deserve the worry she was causing. Neither did her mother. Pulling on dressing gown and slippers, she joined her parents at the dining table.

  Sunday. The sky was clear, the streets fresh from last night’s showers. The first shoots of Spring dappled the bare trees, Toby yapped frantically along the fence, further down the labrador trotted from under the house and smiled his familiar hello.

  She walked steadily up the hill to St. Margaret’s, serene in her hallowed island of clipped lawn. Colin met her in the back room. Today there would be no choir, only one of the long-practiced tenor solos that had been regularly featured over their years together.

  The young conscientious objector with the silver voice was concerned for her. “How are you keeping, Anne? You seem to be…”

  “I’m all right.”

  “I’m sorry,” he struggled into his white robe. “I’m not prying. The Vicar’s worried about you. What’s wrong, Anne? Can we help? Can I help?”

  She made an effort. “Who’s we?”

  “The Vicar. Our friends here. Me…You don’t seem well.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “We’ve all been through a lot, Anne. The war’s changed everything.”

  She reached for her robe and cap.

  “Let me help you.” Taking charge, he eased her out of her coat and into the choir uniform.

  Too lethargic to argue, she did not resist.

  “I’ll hang your coat on the hook. Okay, Anne?”

  Why was he bothering?

  “Have you got the music ready?”

  The music was in the organ seat. He knew that.

  “Are you sure you should be playing today, Anne?”

  She tried to focus.

  He took her hand. “You’re freezing!”

  “I’m all right. Really.”

  “I’ll warm your hands.” Taking both hands in his, he began to massage them.

  Gradually, she thawed. “That is better,” she admitted. “Thank you.”

  He released her. “Will you be right to play?”

  She met his concerned eyes. Would she be right to play?

  “You can back out, Anne,” he suggested. “We’ll all understand.”

  Would they? Though he possibly would, the other people wouldn’t. Any more than they’d understood about her not taking communion. No one understood.

  “I’m all right, thank you.” Quickly leaving the choir room and the concerned young man, she went into the church and prepared for the ceremony.

  White-robed and black-capped, white-faced and lethargic, she coaxed the wheezing organ into lonely life. The Vicar, more lugubrious than ever, woodenly confronted dwindled congregation and empty choir stalls. The hackneyed sermon, the practiced tenor solo, the dreary hymns and the communion rite dutifully adhered to their weary timetable.

  Mr and Mrs Hill were in their pew by the door, empty seats on either side. There were so many empty seats. Of what importance were one or two more? Of what importance was Gary’s empty seat?

  It wasn’t important, yet old habits lingered. The questions, whose answers she didn’t even want to know, were soothing. Where was he? Back fighting? Home with his family? Maybe he’d found a real girl friend? Yet again she drifted into the safe world of imagination and conjecture, to be jolted back to reality by the Vicar’s patient call for the introduction to the final hymn.

  The service over, she lingered. St Margaret’s was at peace. Taking fresh music from the organ seat, she practiced seldom used hymns, played Bach and finally sat quietly in the soothing presence of St Margaret’s ghosts. It would be easy never to leave.

  “Anne.” The Vicar, keys rattling in his hand, was waiting by the back room door. “If you’re staying…?”

  “I have to be home. Mum will be worrying.”

  “Quite right.”

  The robe and cap on their hook, the door locked behind her, the disenchanted Vicar and the concerned tenor vanished into their own cocoons, she exited the empty grounds. Hurrying out into the roadway, she started down the hill for the comfort of her bedroom.

  A car horn tooted. Expecting the re-appearance of the persistent tenor, she reluctantly turned.

  “Anne.” From his lovingly polished old Morris, Mr Hill beckoned.

  She crossed to him. “How are you?”

  Mrs Hill, round face and friendly smile, was at his side.

  “We’re fine, Anne.” He answered for both of them. “Fine.”

  “Would you like a lift home, Anne?” Mrs Hill moved to open the rear door.

  “No, thank you.” Though the bedroom beckoned, she could not tolerate the thought of maintaining a pointless conversation for even the brief time the journey would take. “I like to walk.”

  “We thought you’d like to know about Gary.” Mrs Hill closed the door.

  The empty seat in church had left her vaguely curious. It was something to fill the moment. “How is he?”

  “He’s well. Very well, I’m
happy to say.” Mrs Hill beamed. “He’s coming back. Passing through to the West. On Wednesday.”

  “We thought you might like to come to tea with us. He’d like to see you.”

  “You’re very kind. But….”

  Mr Hill quickly interrupted. “Of course, if you’d rather not, Anne.”

  “I’d like to,” she lied. “It’s my work. I have to get up very early. Unless - if it’s Saturday? Or Friday night?”

  “He only said Wednesday. Pity.”

  “I’m sorry.” The ruse had satisfied them. She’d have found other excuses for the Saturday - or the Friday. Or any other night.

  Mr Hill restarted the motor. “If you change your mind, we’re in the phone book.”

  “You could see him in the march tomorrow,” Mrs Hill delivered a parting message.

  “Is there a march?”

  “In the city. He wrote he might be marching.”

  “I might be able to see it. I’ll try.” Another lie. But why hurt their feelings?

  She watched the car crawl timidly off down the hill. They still had not said where Gary had been or what he’d been doing or why he was going back home to Western Australia.

  Chapter Sixteen

  September 11th:

  The U.S. Army, under General Bradley, leads the Allies onto German soil.

  Monday

  She woke up surprisingly refreshed. Maybe she’d turned a corner? Maybe she wasn’t going to end up like Lillian? After breakfasting with her father, who read his paper, boasted imminent defeat of the Germans, inevitable victory over the Japanese and was infectiously cheerful, she caught an early tram to work. A new week was beginning.

  Julian and Aaron were already there. She hurried in, made tea, and called them.

  “ ’Morning, Anne.” Julian took his cup from her. “Thanks.”

  “Good morning, Anne.” Aaron echoed. “You are looking very well this morning. Has something special occurred?”

  Recalling her parents’ distress, she prevaricated: “I’ve got a friend in the march today.”

  “What march?” Aaron was interested.

  “Just another military display,” Julian grimaced. “Nationalistic hysterics.”

  Julian’s disapproval was grossly unfair. “I’m going to watch it,” she declared. “Do you want to come, Aaron? It’s at lunch time.”

  “I am sorry, it’s not possible. The work waits.”

  “I’ll go with you, Anne.” Julian offered.

  “Don’t bother.”

  “You forget. You are not to be alone.”

  “That’s at night!”

  “If there is personal danger for you at night,” Julian retorted, “there is most certainly personal danger for you in a city mob.”

  “In broad daylight!”

  “For God’s sake, Anne! It’s a patriotic march! No-one sees anything but the soldiers. It’s eyes front. Minds off.”

  “Stop it!”

  “I can’t do that. You are vulnerable in a crowd.”

  “It’s over now! Whatever it was about, it’s over and done with.”

  “Have you been out alone at night?”

  “You know I haven’t.”

  “Yet you’re sure it’s over. Whatever it was.”

  She looked to Aaron for support. He had already turned away.

  “So,” Julian set his empty cup aside. “We will both accompany you to see the march. Lunch time, Aaron.”

  Aaron protested. “I have work.”

  “Take a lunch break.”

  “But Julian! The work!”

  “My dear Aaron - the war effort can bear the strain of losing you for an hour.”

  When she arrived, they were already waiting at the lift.

  Laughing, Julian teased: “Thought you’d sneak out without us?”

  “Don’t be an idiot.”

  “Just as well.” He took her arm. “At least you understand you’re still a target.”

  She understood nothing. Not his changes of mood, not his changes of mind, not his obscure hints at mysterious intrigues and most certainly not how he actually felt about her.

  The dense crowds, already gathered, lined the projected route of the march. From the windows over-looking Elizabeth, Collins, and Swanston Streets, fluttering streamers striped the clear blue sky, admiring cheers deafened and bright faces waited to welcome the brave fighters for freedom from tyranny. Lining the route, all the way down to St Kilda Road and the Memorial Shrine, workers and shoppers and visitors in from the suburbs jostled for a view. Lunches could be eaten later, or on the run; a show of loyalty was mandatory.

  The rhythmic sounds of heavy boots thumping city streets, steady accompaniment to the beating drums and the martial music, heralded the regimented columns of uniformed men coming into sight.

  Elbowing through a narrow gap, Julian led the way to a small space behind a group of school-girls.

  “Stand here!” he shouted. “You can see over their heads.”

  It was theatrical, dramatic, raucous, jingoistic, nationalistic - as Julian had said. It was real. It was men putting their lives on the line for their country and for their beliefs. Fact. The tenor, even though he was a courageous conscientious objector, was proof that these too were courageous men. They, too, had chosen. They had chosen to be here because of their belief in their reasons for fighting.

  In the vanguard, tugging the heart with reflections on the relief of Tobruk, was the pipe band; bagpipes and drums and swinging plaids and cocked bonnets stepping out with pride, leading their men to yet another battle. Or from one? You never knew. Rumour, as always, was multi-faceted. They were on their way to New Guinea. They were on their way home from New Guinea. They were off to relieve Singapore. They were home for good. They were on their way to defend Darwin. They were on their way to join MacArthur. You never knew. Secrecy was paramount. The enemy had ears. Even here. Especially here?

  Next came the soldiers, slouch-hatted, rifles at the slope, boots metallically ringing on city tram lines, arms swinging in military precision, eyes front. Committed. Stern. Most apparently scarcely aware of the crowd. On their way ‘to’, she guessed; their faces betrayed them. How dare Julian belittle this?

  His body, crushed to hers by the jostling school-girls, was suddenly repulsive. She tried to pull away. It was impossible. He placed a possessive - or was it protective? - arm around her waist. He missed nothing.

  For over half an hour they watched the young apprehensive faces tramp past. She must have missed Gary. Perhaps he wasn’t there. Perhaps Mr Hill had got it wrong. Would she ever see him again? He’d been a loyal friend. She shouldn’t have alienated him. If only Julian hadn’t come back. If only Julian had never gone away…

  The faces blurred, her legs gave way.

  Reacting quickly, Julian steadied her. “Don’t faint on me, Anne!”

  “Don’t worry.” Anger rescuing her, she pulled free.

  He laughed.

  The march finally ended, the crowd dispersed, and the school-girls vanished. Not waiting for her escort, she started for the laboratory. Catching up with her, Julian and Aaron took their places on either side.

  “What’s the rush?” Julian took her arm. “Slow down.”

  She ignored him.

  “Such inspiration!” Aaron removed his thick spectacles, and dabbed at moist eyes. “The young men. The sacrifice.”

  Pushing through the chaos of scurrying bodies, she was compelled to slow down. Waiting at a red light, she again felt giddy. The sun hot on her bare head, she stepped back into the shade of an awning.

  “Are you all right?” Julian was at her side. “You’re very pale.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “We worry about you, Anne.” Aaron joined them.

  “I’m all….” Eyes wide, she stopped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Behind her, crossing Little Collins Street, was a man in a hat and heavy coat. In the lightly-dressed crowd he was markedly out of place.

&nb
sp; “Anne! What’s wrong?”

  Quickly recovering, she warned: “Be careful! Don’t look back.”

  “What?” Immediately alert, Julian bent to her. “What is it?”

  “He’s following us. The man. He’s following us. Don’t look!”

  Instantly comprehending, he explained to Aaron. “It’s the man who attacked Anne. Let’s keep walking.”

  One on either side, still careful not to look back, they escorted her from the shelter and crossed with the green light.

  “What’s he look like?” Julian queried.

  “I couldn’t see properly. Except his hat and coat. Like he was before.”

  “Are you sure it’s him?”

  “No – but….”

  Across the top of her head, Julian told Aaron: “Your shoe-lace is undone. We’ll walk on. Tie it. Look back.”

  Long conditioned to unexpected crises, Aaron obeyed.

  They kept on, slowly thrusting through the thinning crowd until Aaron, fighting to catch up, called: “Julian!”

  Stopping, they waited for him to draw alongside.

  “I saw him,” Aaron was very excited. “But he saw me too. He’s gone.”

  “Damn!”

  “I know him, Julian. I know his face.”

  “What! Tell me! Who is he?”

  “Not the name, Julian. The face. It is the face I see before.”

  “Where?”

  “On the ship. This man. He also is a refugee.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am sure it was this man on the ship. If you ask am I sure he is a refugee? No, I am not so sure. He was with us. This much is certain.”

  “I see.” Julian stared at the passing people.

  Heart pounding, she waited. What was this about? The man either was or was not a refugee. What was Aaron hinting at?

  Julian looked at his watch. “It’s too early. Let’s have a cool drink.”

  Locating a milk bar, they perched on stools set before a long narrow bench which overlooked the street. Julian ordered lemonade for three. The waitress served them before returning to her post behind the counter.

  On the other side of the window, people went about their business; mostly ordinary people. Office girls, shop assistants, frazzled mothers pushing prams, earnest men in high collars and tight ties, uniformed men and women, a group of American sailors, a sleazy hobo who seemed uncomfortably out of place. The sun burned the hot glass and the thunderous city sounds assaulted the open doorway. The bored waitress mechanically chewed gum and listened to Vera Lynn on the wireless.