Liberty

by McWatters, Nikki;

  ‘I hope I’ll be a mother someday.’ I smiled. ‘Maybe Will and I will have ten children. Maybe thirteen like Granny!’

  My sister laughed and clucked at her babe as she settled back down on my narrow bed.

  ‘You would be driven mad.’ She smiled. ‘But it is lovely. I never thought I could love another person as much as I love this little girl.’

  I carefully put the book back in the bottom of the chest.

  ‘Keep it safe,’ Brigit told me.

  There was a knock at the door and George put his head in.

  ‘Word has come that the redcoats will be coming for Brigit in the morning,’ he said solemnly. ‘If we’re to bust Jimmy out it will have to be tonight. We need you to ride with us, Betsy. To be our lookout. You’ll need to be ready upon our return, Brigit.’

  ‘Oh heavens.’ My sister fussed, putting the babe over her shoulder, patting her firmly. Her calmness had gone and she looked flustered. ‘Be careful. God be with you all. Bring my Jimmy home safely and we’ll away to the barge before sun up.’

  ‘We’ll get you safe.’ I nodded to my sister. ‘I promise.’

  ‘I believe you, Betsy.’ She smiled and winked at me. ‘You’ll have all those mothers and grandmothers watching over you. Blood of iron.’

  I dragged on my riding boots, threw a shawl over my shoulders, pulled on some thick gloves and went out with George into the dark, snowy night.

  After Luke opened his draft letter, he’d wandered back to his room looking bereft and I had let him be to process the news on his own. To distract myself from worrying about him, I’d rushed back to my small room to open Dad’s parcel. Now I sat on my bed, breathing deeply. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at and spent over an hour touching the ancient book that appeared to be covered in soft suede; a very thin, very old animal skin. It looked like something you would see under glass in a museum, not sitting on my lap as I sat on a tattered patchwork bedspread in my shoebox of a room at a boarding house in inner-city Brisbane. When I’d opened the parcel from my father, I had expected a pack of sheet music or a new journal or maybe even some music magazines. What amazed me the most was my strange connection to the book. The skin on my face prickled like it did whenever I was nervous or afraid.

  I’d stared at the final entry, beyond which were two more bare but stained pages, which were blank. The final inscription: Fiona Paisley McKechnie, Edinburgh, 1950. The name carefully written in black ink above mine was Lillian Daisy Fergus, Edinburgh, 1924. My mother’s name. Still feeling my heart beating like a drum, I lightly traced my finger over all the names and places meandering through the book. Some entries had dates and others did not. There were notes added, scratched into the unlined margins like medieval chicken-claw prints. Some of the earlier entries were faded and hard to decipher but I stopped on one name, Jeanne d’Arc, and inhaled sharply. Surely it couldn’t be. Written beside her name was Domrémy-la-Pucelle and my rudimentary recollection of history told me that the legendary Joan of Arc had been born in a place called something like Domrémy. And there was an ink blotch beside the name that looked like a tiny broomstick. Beside that name was Catherine Romée and the next name began beneath it. Could that have been her sister from whom sprang her family’s descendants? Down to another Jeanne, born in Beauvais?

  The front of the book had some scratchings that really did look like a bird had walked across a stretch of wet sand, but beneath the markings were the words Systir Saga; perhaps a later translation as it was in a darker, more solid ink. Beneath that was the English translation: Sister Story. I said the words aloud in an awed whisper. ‘Systir Saga.’ The words sounded like an ancient spell. Considering that all the names in the book appeared to be female names, it made some sense. The Sister Story. A sisterhood book? Were all these women my blood relatives? Working back from my room in Brisbane, the book appeared to have travelled through much of the known world and beyond. There were place names I did not recognise and some I did. I felt like I had stepped into a fantasy.

  I threw my head back and stared up at the slow-moving fan, letting out a long sigh. I shut my eyes, trying to let my brain catch up with it all.

  My father’s letter said that my mother had wrapped this parcel and put it in her suitcase along with all her notebooks and journals with a note that read: For Fiona, on her wedding day. I looked at the crimson silk scarf that Mum had wrapped the book in and lifted it to my face, trying to inhale her scent. I wondered why my mother had wanted to wait for that day to pass the book on. To warn me not to forget who I was and where I had come from? To bond us? I would never know. I wished so much that she had given it to me while she was alive so that we could have talked about it. Dad said he had found it when he was putting Mum’s suitcase in the shed and he’d decided, after some thought, and without opening it, to send it on to me in Brisbane because he was getting the very uncomfortable feeling that marriage was not going to be on my agenda for quite some time.

  That made me smile.

  I wondered if I should take the book to the History faculty at the university to have them date and analyse it. The historical significance of such a book could not be underestimated. And yet, my mother would have known that but she chose to wrap it up, away from Dad’s prying eyes, and put it aside for me. And the significance of giving it to me on my ‘wedding day’ was a passing on of tradition, I supposed, something her mother must have done for her. I missed my mum so much. Many days I pushed it down and out of sight so that it didn’t hurt but that made my memories of her a little dimmer every time. But, holding this book, I felt as if Mum was in the room with me and I opened my eyes, looking around, half expecting her to be standing at the end of my bed. Even though my mother wasn’t actually there, I realised that I still had a deep connection with her. And the thought of this came out of nowhere, suffocating me with emotion.

  ‘Mum?’ I whispered into the room. ‘Are you here? Can you see me? Can you?’

  And then I pushed the book away, pulled my knees up to my chin and began to sob.

  There was a knock at my door, making me fall off the bed with shock. It was late. Outside an owl hooted and a half moon rested on my window sill. I was wearing my long white nightie. The knock came again. I could only assume it was Mrs Lotte coming to reprimand me for getting in late, a few minutes past the weekend curfew of ten o’clock. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and went to the door and opened it a touch. Part of me wanted it to be Mum.

  It was Luke.

  ‘Luke!’ I whispered harshly, pulling my nightdress up around my neck coyly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Fi,’ he said, and as I opened the door a little wider the light fell on his face and I could see that he had been crying. ‘I just … I need someone to talk to.’

  ‘Wait there,’ I hissed and shut the door.

  I took my mother’s book and rewrapped it in the red silk scarf, placing it carefully on the top shelf of my wardrobe. I pulled on my jeans and a light sloppy joe and some flat shoes.

  Luke and I crept like burglars along the narrow hallway, down the staircase, and tiptoed into the communal living room. We shut the door, turning on a lamp, bathing the room in soft orange light.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fi,’ Luke said miserably, sitting on a sofa and putting his head in his hands. ‘I have no one else to talk to. I don’t want to be a soldier. I don’t ever want to hold a gun or shoot anyone or get shot.’

  ‘That’s totally understandable, Luke,’ I said, sitting down beside him. ‘I don’t think many young men who get called up really want to go.’

  ‘But I mean I really don’t want to go,’ he groaned. ‘Really. I am not going to go. I’m going to refuse.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Okay.’

  We sat in silence for a few more minutes. I was terrified that Mrs Lotte would appear and evict me for fraternising with a boy after hours.

  ‘I�
�m going to nick off and disappear,’ he moaned.

  ‘That’s against the law, Luke,’ I said softly. ‘If they find you they’ll throw you in prison.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ he said flatly. ‘I’d rather be in prison than be forced to shoot someone. I couldn’t kill another human being. I couldn’t, Fi. Not ever.’

  ‘It’s war,’ I said, lamely. ‘It’s bigger than one person. It’s not individual. It’s got a greater picture, you know? And anyway, it’s the law. It’s not nice but it is what it is. No one likes paying taxes or stopping at red lights but it’s the law.’

  ‘I’m not doing it,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘You could apply to be a conscientious objector. There are grounds if you meet the criteria.’

  ‘I’d need a lawyer,’ he said bitterly. ‘And I’m broke. Aunty is the only family I’ve got left and she’s not going to help me be a coward, is she?’

  ‘Well.’ I shrugged and sighed. ‘I sure am a long way from being a lawyer because I’m struggling to make sense of first-year Property Law but I know a guy at uni who’s fourth year and top of his class. I could ask him to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Oh, Fi,’ Luke said, looking at me with renewed hope. ‘Would you? I’m supposed to turn up at the barracks in a month so I don’t have long to sort this out. I guess I’d have to be a … conscientious objector … or a deserter or something.’

  ‘I think the term is “non-complier”,’ I told him. ‘You can’t desert something you haven’t joined yet.’

  ‘Whatever, yeah,’ Luke said. ‘But if I could talk to your friend—’

  ‘He’s not really a friend,’ I said quickly. ‘But he does seem to know a lot or at least makes out that he does.’

  At noon the next day I was sitting in a park in Highgate Hill with Luke, Agnes, Barton and his jerky sidekick, Jeff.

  ‘We’ll start the march on campus and walk from there all the way into town and end up at Roma Street. It will be a little cooler by then.’ Barton McLeod sounded like he’d already arranged the whole thing instead of looking for suggestions.

  ‘Didn’t the cops go nuts and arrest and beat up protesters last year?’ Agnes asked. ‘It was in all the papers and on the television news.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Barton nodded. ‘But freedom of speech, you know. We are protesting non-violently. Just marching for what we believe in. And at the end of the day, the end of the march, when we’ve got everyone’s attention, that’s when you, Luke, will burn your draft notice. In front of the cameras.’

  It sounded crazy to me. ‘Personally,’ I waded in, ‘I think Luke would be better off fronting up to court and lodging a conscientious objection. That way he’s doing it legally.’

  ‘But that’s a cop-out,’ Barton said passionately. ‘We need to make a stand, not just for Luke, but for all the young men who are being forced to go and kill. Luke could get out of serving with a court order if he lied, but this is the perfect opportunity to run him in public as a poster boy for our cause. Raise awareness.’

  ‘Poster boy? I like it!’ Luke laughed, striking a melodramatic model pose.

  ‘You really do have the matinee idol looks.’ Agnes smiled at him. I rolled my eyes at her and shot a look at Jeff who was staring at Agnes like she was made of ice-cream.

  ‘That’s all well and good, Barton,’ I said. ‘But you’re asking Luke to take an enormous risk and he might end up in gaol. That’s pretty serious.’

  ‘I obviously would rather not go to gaol,’ Luke said seriously. ‘But I am pretty fired up about the whole issue. I don’t think anyone should be forced to kill people. And like Barton says, it isn’t even our war. No one’s threatening us here in Australia.’

  ‘It’s risky,’ I murmured. ‘For you. And for all of us. Anyone involved. I don’t want it to jeopardise my future as a lawyer.’

  ‘And what the hell is wrong with taking a risk?’ Barton said, striding around waving his hands wildly as he did when he got riled up. ‘Risk is thinking outside the box, taking a chance, making a change for the better. Nothing great ever happens without risk. Evolution of the human race is reliant on risk!’

  Luke gave me a smile. He was so handsome that it was quite astounding. My body was blushing without my consent! I looked up to see Barton looking at me. I was so embarrassed that I wanted to dig a hole in the ground and crawl into it like a wombat.

  ‘I’m game,’ Luke said slowly. ‘I don’t want to go. Not because I’m a coward, or at least I don’t think so, but because it feels wrong, you know? It just feels wrong that people are being forced by the government to go.’

  ‘I’ll march,’ Agnes said. ‘What about you, Fi?’

  I pulled a face, feeling slightly queasy. I was thinking hard and the day was so warm that my glasses were fogging up. I didn’t know what to think. On principle, I could see their point. I sure as heck wouldn’t want to be told that I had to pick up a gun and shoot strangers. I understood Luke and Barton’s point of view – that no one should be forced to kill against their will – but I was worried about how such an attitude might play out in public. How could we hope to change the law?

  ‘People might not like the law but it is there for a reason and society would just descend into anarchy without it,’ I said softly.

  ‘You would make a terrible lawyer, Fiona!’ Barton said, shaking his head like a disappointed father. ‘You don’t become a lawyer to play by the rules. You agitate and change the rules for the better.’

  ‘I would not make a terrible lawyer,’ I responded indignantly. ‘I want to help people and I think a good lawyer would advise Luke to follow the legal path of applying for an exemption on the grounds of being a conscientious objector.’

  ‘Okay, Luke!’ Barton said in a formal voice as though he was impersonating a High Court judge. ‘Are you religious? A Jehovah’s Witness perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ Luke said warily. ‘I’m kind of between religions. I like the Hare Krishna food though …’

  ‘Are you studying theology at the moment?’ Barton asked.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Are you an Aboriginal?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Medically unfit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That pretty much rules him out for any kind of exemption, CO or other. How about a deferment of service, son? Are you married?’

  That question made Luke roll around the grass, laughing.

  ‘As if!’

  ‘An apprentice? A university student?’

  ‘No,’ Luke conceded.

  ‘Then your fate, dear boy, is sealed. Here, have a gun and go kill some people. Get killed. All in the name of liberty. What a joke.’

  Agnes came over to me and started sprinkling a handful of picked yellow dandelions in my hair.

  ‘Fi,’ she cooed. ‘Luke would make a great statement to the cause. It’s hard to find someone who has their draft notice and is ready to refuse to go and willing to burn the piece of paper on camera!’

  ‘You don’t have to march if you don’t want to, Fi.’ Luke smiled. ‘I understand your point of view as well and not everyone wants to make a loud protest. It’s cool. Really.’

  ‘Well, just don’t ask me to bail you out of gaol, Luke, because I have no money!’ I grumbled. ‘And if you all get kicked out of uni for it, wait a few years and then if you need a good lawyer I’ll be—’

  ‘A factory-line lawyer who works for The Man,’ Barton shot back.

  ‘Get stuffed, Barton.’ I glared at him. ‘You might be the big man on campus but you’re just a student who thinks he’s more important than he really is. You want to change the world but most of all you want an audience to watch it. This is about Luke. Not you and not “the cause”. It’s about Luke!’

  I stood up, brushed the annoying yellow flowers off my clothes and gave them all a curt no
d.

  ‘I’ve got to get back to study.’

  ‘Fi!’ Agnes called as I walked away.

  I ignored them and headed back to the boarding house, losing myself in a jumble of thoughts. Could I pick up a gun and aim it at somebody and end their life? I thought about Luke with his shiny brown mane of hair and his deeply suntanned forearms. I imagined him in a rice paddy in Vietnam, slinking through the mud with a helmet on. Shot dead on foreign soil.

  I walked the last block back to Mrs Lotte’s, passing the raised, wooden Queenslander cottages with their enclosed wrap-around verandas. Moreton Bay figs dangled boomerangs of seed pods and the scent of jasmine wafted over picket fences. There was a hum of insects playing in the air around me.

  Back in my coffin-like room, I turned on the fan, stripped and pulled my nightie back on, over my head. I gently retrieved the Systir Saga book from the top of my wardrobe, climbed into bed and proceeded to fill in my own fantasies of my mother and all the women, sisters, mothers, daughters and aunts that came before me. I read the names aloud: Anna Maria Mueller. Joanna Jonsdötter. Jeanne d’Arc. Grace O’Malley. Katherine Campbell. Isabel Campbell. Rosa Veronica Johannes. Jeanne Laisné. Isabella Boyne. Brigit Gray. Betsy Gray. Isabella Ballantine. Names and more names making patterns out and around the pages like random tree branches, some leading to the next page, others stopping abruptly. And my name last of all. Did these women change their worlds? I smiled, feeling sure that they did.

  I fell asleep and my dreams were filled with women dressed in old-fashioned dresses, speaking foreign tongues, and I was a baby in a crib like that fairytale Sleeping Beauty. I felt they were all my fairy godmothers wishing me the best life.

  I woke with wet eyelashes and the feeling of my mother’s kiss on my warm forehead.

  ‘They will spill over the wall like hungry maggots consuming everyone in their path until they have seized the entire city,’ I told my perfumed audience.

  The women were soft and anxious. I stood in the middle of a room that was panelled in scrolled dark oak beneath an ornate ceiling of plasterwork. The place was dripping opulence and the seven women on the velvet sofas before me looked little more than fancy room decorations, dressed in ermine-trimmed jackets over brocaded skirts and satin-covered shoes.