‘If I had the nerve to hit Taylor, I would have swum back to Balmain before I thought about getting on this ferry, but there’s Frank perched up the front of the boat like nothing’s happened. Sorry to dump this on you mate, but I thought you would like to know.’
Tom waited for a reply and braced himself as the ferry brushed the buffers attached to the timbers of the Balmain wharf, . ’Well, I’ll be off then, Albert, I hope it’s nothing.’
Roused by the slap of heavy ropes tossed from the ferry’s deck to the bollards on the wharf, Albert shook Tom’s hand and thanked him. He stood with his back to the fire hydrant and deliberately waited as dozens of his co-workers shuffled past him to disembark; it gave him time to compose his thoughts.
***
Albert Miller picked up his change from the bar with one hand, and with the other, the inviting glass of ale. Some of the amber fluid spilled over its edge to trickle down his wrist as he made his way through the gathering of Friday evening drinkers. He found an empty table, placed his beer down, and then wiped his hand dry on his boiler suit before he took a seat.
His mind was still foggy from his discussion with Tom Wright. He just couldn’t make sense of it. On his long walk from the wharf to the pub, he had reflected on Frank’s behaviour over the past weeks. As he probed his memory for the slightest clue that would throw some sort of light on the matter, he realised how little time he had spent with Frank—apart from watching the footy—since Archie had departed, so many months before. Had he overlooked changes in Frank? It was hard to say. They travelled to work and back on most days, he thought he would be able to keep an eye him, not that he ever thought Frank particularly needed looking over. He seemed to be like the other two boys, but more like Archie.
Albert took the first sip of his beer and suddenly felt exhausted. Not the physical kind; he had worked hard all his life and could count the amount of times he had been crook on one hand. This was different; he felt older. He hadn’t acknowledged it before; he made sure his family—in particular his wife—were in good spirits. That had taken priority. But as he sat alone in a noisy pub, he felt the strain that came with seeing two sons off to war. By being preoccupied with concern for his eldest boys, he had possibly lost sight of the youngest, maybe most in need son. Albert reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the envelope Craig had given him. He promised himself to devote more time to Frank.
Albert tore open the bone-coloured envelope and noticed two separately folded letters. Intrigued, Albert looked at both, and then saw that one of them had Dad written on one side in bold letters.
Anzac
11 August 1915
Dear Dad,
I hope this letter finds you well. I took the liberty of mailing this to Cockatoo Island, hope I didn’t get you into strife, as I wanted to let you know how we have done over here without alarming Mother and little Alice. The other letter is for you to read at home.
I am not exactly sure what to write, but felt I had to write something as I could never have imagined the scenes that I witnessed over the previous few days could be brought to bear on any man. My mates and I have been involved in ferocious fighting, mostly hand-to-hand, at a place they call Lone Pine. We lost many good men, too many, but the ones that pulled through did our fallen mates proud, taking the Turkish trenches and holding them. My battalion, the 1st, was in reserve, but we were called forward less than an hour into it, to secure some trenches that had been taken. We really stuck it to the Turk and he, in turn, never gave up, launching counter attacks one after the other, hurling an endless supply of small bombs at us. I will never be able to explain the courage the Diggers showed. One bloke, Captain Sasse, led us time after time, attacking the enemy with bayonets, even though he was wounded more than once.
I don’t know how I pulled through, but rest assured I’m fine, except for a case of the ‘runs’. Having a rest from the front-line trenches at the moment, if you can call it that, still getting shelled and sniped at, so you have to have your wits about you. There has been a series of battles and charges resulting in heavy casualties, all part of a big push to get to our objective. Proud to have been able to do my duty for Australia and the Empire, but just as glad that Clarrie hasn’t joined up and is sticking with the newspaper. When I think back to the day I set sail, I shake my head. I am not sure if I knew what to expect when I left, but I know now that I was innocent to the ways of the world, a boy really. Think of me when you go to watch Balmain.
Your son
Archie
And every other day son, every other day. Albert folded the letter like it would tear at the slightest breeze and placed it in his pocket—separate from the other letter. Two men who stood at the bar glanced at Albert. Both understood what he was going through; it was a ritual that had become commonplace in pubs from Manchester to Sydney.
SIX
The moon sat low over the western horizon, larger than one would normally view it. Surrounded by three elongated clouds, visible only by the light from the luminescent orb, they appeared strained to breaking point. A destructive force hidden by darkness attempted to tear them away from shining hope.
Clarence sat with his back against a bulwark of the HMAT Warilda. The ship’s bow cut south through the calm sea. His senses were captivated by the lunar display and its portrayal of contrast. Somewhere over that distant horizon lay the east coast of Australia and thousands of souls at rest. His wife, unable to sleep, might gaze out through her window to accept the moon and its light, a transmitter between two points, a beacon for kindred spirits to find each other.
It was a boy. Without knowing how, he knew, and he felt love of a new but wonderful kind. With one knee tucked up to support a sketch-pad, he scratched away with a pencil. Clarrie tried to capture the mood of the men on this first night at sea. Along the starboard rail, he could hear the muttered voices, as men, congregated in small groups, told stories and made jokes. Each figure was a silhouette, indistinguishable from the other, until the reddish-orange tips of their cigarettes gave definition to their faces. Their banter comforted Clarence against a steely black sea.
‘What ya got there, Miller?’ blurted Private Jack Sullivan. He appeared suddenly out of the shadows and dropped to the deck to sit shoulder to shoulder with his mate. His back, like Clarence’s, rested against the cold steel of the Warilda.
‘Nothing really.’
‘Doesn’t look like nothin’ to me, give us a look.’
‘I would rather...’ replied Clarence, but in one fluent movement, Jack or Sticks, as he was more commonly known, dug the knuckles of his left hand into Clarence’s ribs and swiped the sketch pad from his grasp. His victim recoiled in pain.
‘Thanks, Sticks,’ said Clarence, as he rubbed his ribs.
‘Not a problem, mate, now what do we have here? An artist!’ Private Sullivan rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger. He mocked his friend while he masqueraded as an art appraiser.
‘Fair go, Sullivan.’
‘Clarrie, you’ve got me all wrong mate, it’s very good, very good. Is there anything you can’t do? Journalist: artist, professor of general knowledge, what other talents do you have?’
‘Righto, Sticks… give it back.’
‘No chance, hey who wants to...’
Now it was Clarence’s turn to give Sticks a dig in the ribs, and he delivered the blow where he wanted. Private Sullivan surrendered the sketch pad, doubled over in laughter, not pain.
‘Sorry, Clarrie, just having some fun,’ said Sticks. He chuckled while he rubbed his flank. It is very good though, fair dinkum mate.’
Clarence ignored Sticks’s compliment. ‘Where have you been anyway?’
‘Oh… just played cards with some of the boys.’
Clarence looked at Sticks with a look a father might give a son when he had done something that lacked judgement, but with a wry smile of a mate.
‘I know, I know. I said I would give the cards a rest but I thought I could get something off those bl
oody Queenslanders.’
‘Skin you, did they?’
Sticks gave a nod. ‘Bastards they are. Think they’re running the joint,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Maybe cards isn’t your go, Jack.’
‘Not my go! You listen hear mate, I’ll sort those bloody banana benders out, don’t you worry about that. Just give me a day or two.’
Clarence smiled as he glanced back at his sketch pad. He admired his mate’s dogged outlook on his dwindling finances. Clarrie shook his head and made a few minor adjustments to his sketch.
Jack Sullivan and Clarence Miller had become firm friends since their first day at training camp. Jack, a dock worker at Sydney’s White Bay, stood about six feet two inches tall, and although thin, he had strength in his body’s tight sinewy muscles. It could be felt in his firm handshake. He liked to drink, swear, play cards, and fight, usually in that order. They were things that had never really interested Clarrie, but it had not stopped him from enjoying the dock worker’s company.
It was the same for Jack. He too had often wondered what had drawn him towards the well-dressed and fresh-faced cadet journalist. Jack had never understood how a man could prefer to read poetry over a game of cards, but he respected the fact that Clarrie wasn’t afraid to be himself, especially when surrounded by men intent on showing the world how manly they were. Maybe that was real bravery, Jack would think to himself—but not for too long. Jack didn’t like to complicate things. Clarrie and he were mates and that’s all he needed to know, and that was all Wally Clarke knew after he called Clarrie a pansy after seeing his book on Keats. Poor Wally ended up flat on his back with his nose flatter and wider, courtesy of a left jab and right cross from Jack Sticks Sullivan.
Sticks tapped Clarrie on the shoulder; thoughts of avenged losses were put on the back burner for the moment. ‘I will get us a good spot to put up our hammocks before the rest of these bludgers cotton on to it.’
Without a word, Clarrie nodded, gathered himself up, and followed Sticks below decks.
***
Balmain, 10 October, 1915
Frank Miller looked like any other boy in a Sydney suburb. He stood across the road from the Dry Dock Hotel, tossed his football in the air and caught it again. To a passer-by, he would look like a son who waited patiently to pass on a message from an exasperated mother to an inebriated father. Except that Albert Miller drank at the Exchange, not the Dry Dock.
It was close to dinner-time, and Frank felt he should probably head home. He had already received a tongue lashing from his father on the Saturday morning after his dust-up with Jimmy Taylor, and he didn’t want another one or worse. But he didn’t want to upset his new business partner either.
Frank had felt like a new person, a grown-up, since he met Mr Symonds. His father had told him to steer clear of people like him, and by the tone of his voice and the look in his eyes, Frank knew his father meant it. In the years or even months gone by, he would have heeded his dad’s advice and not gone near the Dry Dock Hotel again. But for some reason, one he was not sure he could explain, he had ignored the Old Man.
In a chance meeting at Birchgrove Oval, Ron Symonds had given Frank and his mate Jim an opportunity to earn a few extra shillings, while, as Mr Symonds put it, providing a service for the community in tough times. Frank and Jim had taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker, and had started doing the rounds on Cockatoo Island during smoko over a fortnight ago.
At first, Frank had trod warily. He was well aware that he was only an apprentice on the island, well down the pecking order of importance, but as the days passed, he grew in confidence. He had noticed how men nodded g’day, and even the union representative, Ned Larson, would give him a greeting every now and then. Frank felt empowered in his new pastime. At home he was feeling unnoticed and alone. He missed his brother Archie more than he knew how to explain. He wanted to ask his mother and father questions about where Archie was fighting and when he would be back, but he felt a feeling of gloom come over his parents every time his brother’s name came up and. He found it easier to get away and kick his football. When Clarrie had announced he was enlisting, he felt the strangest feeling of betrayal, which he knew didn’t really make sense, except for that he felt it, wrong or right.
On the Friday when he had hit Jimmy Taylor, and Jimmy—knowing who Frank worked for—had not retaliated, it had changed Frank. It had turned his feeling of empowerment into sheer arrogance. While Frank and Jim may have swallowed Mr Symonds’s line about providing a service for the ordinary man, who was unfairly rationed, while the rich still consumed the best of everything, he was well aware that Ronnie Symonds was a criminal, and a feared criminal at that. Nevertheless, as crooks do, and he was now one, he rationalised that he had provided goods for payment that otherwise would not be available. A business transaction between two willing parties, and as long as the second of those parties—the customer—kept up their end of the deal, incidents like the one that involved Taylor wouldn’t have to happen.
Frank noticed a sturdy figure step out from a door on the College Street side of the pub. It was his boss, and he darted across Cameron Street to meet him.
‘Frankie, my boy, sorry to keep you,’ said Symonds, with a smile that suggested he actually cared.
‘That’s alright, Mr Symonds,’ replied Frank, enthusiastically. Frank realised he didn’t sound like the hardened crook.
‘Frankie, it’s Ronnie, please. Where’s Jimmy?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Well I can see that, but is he coming?’
‘I don’t think so Mr, I mean Ronnie.’
‘Cold feet, hey?’ stated Symonds. He tapped his shiny leather shoes on the footpath as he lit himself a smoke and inhaled deeply. Ronnie blew a thick cloud of tobacco smoke over Frank’s head, while his eyes narrowed, deep in thought. ‘Not to worry,’ he blurted. ‘Had a feeling that might happen, but I have confidence in you, Frankie boy.’
‘Thanks, Ronnie,’ replied Frank. He glowed in the recognition.
‘Got the list?’
Frank didn’t answer, but promptly produced a folded piece of paper and handed it to his boss. Symonds studied the sheet and gave the occasional murmur, while Frank acted like he was suddenly distracted by the metal work on the awning above him.
‘Very good, Frank. Any trouble? I know about Taylor.’
‘Sorry about that, Mr Symonds, I lost my temper.’
‘I would rather you leave that stuff to my boys, but it’s fine lad, really,’ said Symonds. He broke into a laugh, as he tussled Frank’s hair. ‘I would have liked to have seen it though; you’ve got balls, Frank. I will give you that, Taylor’s no girl.’
Frank gave a slight grin but remained silent.
‘I think you and me are going to get along just fine, Frank; I have big plans for you my boy. Just keep your head down and don’t attract unnecessary attention.’
‘Yes, Ronnie, it won’t happen again,’ replied Frank obediently.
‘Same as last week, take the orders on Monday and bring the list to me after work. One of Ned Larson’s boys will deliver the goods Wednesday, you distribute, Ned’s man collects.’
‘I can collect, Ronnie.’
‘I’m sure you could, but how could you explain that sort of cash if questioned? Low profile son, low profile.’
‘Yes, Mr Symonds.’
‘Ned’s man collects on Friday, you fill in who has and who hasn’t, and pass it to me, easy as ABC. Got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘Good. Now remember Frank, loose lips sink ships. Don’t give the game up by bragging, and if someone puts some heat on, what do you know?’
‘Nothin’.’
‘Good boy, now head home,’ ordered Symonds. He put his hand out for Frank to shake; there was a ten-shilling note neatly folded in his palm.
***
‘Boots!’ Yelled Grace Miller. An automatic response when she heard Frank enter the house with the finesse of a Hereford bull.
Frank slammed the heavy timber door behind him and took a few strides before the command registered. He paused and then back-tracked.
‘Sorry!’
‘You were last time too,’ sighed Grace. She rolled her eyes as she continued to mix a cake batter. The bowl was cradled in one arm to allow her to use more force with her wooden spoon; the effort drew small beads of sweat to her forehead on a warm spring day.
‘What are you making, Mum?’ exclaimed Frank, as he entered the kitchen, boots clamped together in one hand, his football nursed in the other.
‘Vanilla cake.’
‘Can I have the bowl and spoon?’
‘If you’re good… Now, where have you been? Dad was looking for you to go to the football.’
‘Oh, I forgot. I was just kicking the footy around,’ he said. Frank felt slightly unsettled about lying to his mother. He was also truly sorry to have missed the game.
‘Well he couldn’t wait; he would have missed the tram.’
‘I would’ve liked to have gone to Redfern Oval,’ said Frank sincerely, like the threshold of the house reverted him to the boy they all knew, leaving the wannabe tough guy outside.
‘That’s what your father said. Here, sit down.’ She passed the mixing bowl smeared with batter to her youngest son.
Grace sat down opposite Frank with her cup of tea. She watched her son as he scraped every inch of the bowl with the spoon, and then finger.
‘Frank.’ She stated calmly.
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘So, who were you kicking the football with?’
‘Jimmy,’ he replied, with a pause that hinted at guilt. It was barely perceptible, but rang like a fog-horn to a mother.
‘Oh,’ said Grace, as if the question had no significance other than kitchen table chit-chat. When your child starts to lie to you, it is a strange experience for a parent. Sometimes, as it was with Archie and Clarence, it is brushed off as one of those things that would inevitably happen, harmless and sometimes humorous, part of a kid trying to show that they can make their own choices. Other times, when you sense something amiss, it makes you feel sad. You realise that while you sit with a smile, a small piece of innocence has tumbled off into the abyss. Like a chunk of ice off an iceberg, it drifts perilously into warmer waters. Frank had begun to drift, she could feel it. And even though she could see that little boy she knew so well, as he attacked the mixing bowl with all the playfulness and enthusiasm of a pup, she couldn’t ignore the subtle change that had overcome her son.
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