Beneath the Willow

by Michael J Murphy

‘Fairly normal, her mum’s a bit high strung, her father’s a good bloke though, a baker, Reynolds’s bakery.’

  ‘I know the one, Darling Street, near the butchers.’

  ‘That’s right. Ruth still works there or maybe she isn’t now,’ said Clarence with a puzzled look on his face. ‘The baby is due in April. This mail situation really gets under my skin, haven’t seen one letter yet.’

  ‘It stinks,’ replied Archie, ‘you get none and then suddenly you’ll get eight, typical… what did you just say?’

  ‘The mail’s getting me annoyed’.

  ‘Before that.’

  Clarence scratched his head. He ran the conversation through his mind, and then, casually, like he had recalled a lost melody, he blurted, ‘The baby’s due in April.’

  ‘The baby’s due in April?’ replied a stunned Archie. He stopped in his tracks alongside a water cart. He forced Clarrie to stop and turn to face him. ‘Baby, what baby?’

  ‘Ours… mine and Ruth’s.’

  Archie was gobsmacked and stood motionless on the sandy road. His face was fixed in an expressionless stare, while other soldiers passed. They paused, as if he might need assistance; touched by the sun, they probably thought.

  ‘You all right, Arch?’ enquired Clarrie.

  ‘Yeh mate… just shocked. A baby, Clarrie, you’re going to be a dad!’ The news of new life added weight to what Archie had felt inside the tent.

  ‘Yes, Arch, you could have knocked me down with a feather when Ruth told me.’

  ‘My little brother,’ whispered Archie. He moved sideways to lean against the water cart, a glint of joy in his eye. The news touched a part of Archie’s being that he hadn’t been aware of; the part of an individual that, without them knowing, makes them paternal. When Archie had leapt aboard the troopship, arm-in-arm with his mates, the only other thing that he thought could occupy his mind and life in this world was football. In one short sentence, he had just found out what his real vocation was.

  ‘You sure you’re all right, Archie?’ asked Clarrie, surprised at his normally boisterous brother.

  ‘Over the moon,’ exclaimed Archie. He sprang to attention and held out his hand to offer his congratulations. ‘Sorry, Clarrie, I couldn’t be happier for you. So much has happened… I’ve only been gone a bit.’

  ‘You’re right, Archie, sometimes I can’t believe how my life has changed and so quickly, but when I think of Ruth, I feel like I have known her my whole life and everything that has happened was meant to happen.’

  ‘Well, that may be true shagger,’ said Archie with a return to his masculine self. He grabbed his brother in a headlock and ruffled his hair, ‘but I do know something that is definitely meant to happen.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ asked Clarence, pleased to see his brother like he knew him.

  ‘We are meant to get a leave pass and celebrate.’

  ‘But I don’t drink.’

  ‘I’ll teach you.’

  NINE

  Balmain, February 1916

  ‘G’day, Hammer,’ said Frank, as he took a seat alongside the strongly built man, on a bench between the waters of Snails Bay and Birchgrove Oval.

  ‘Ronnie wants you to go “cockatoo” tomorrow afternoon,’ said Hammer. He stared out over the water and made no acknowledgment or reply to Frank’s greeting.

  ‘No worries. Where?’

  Hammer stood and removed a folded piece of paper from his coat pocket. ‘Hat on if all clear, hat off if you see anyone that shouldn’t be there. Three o’clock, don’t be late, address is here,’ said Hammer. He passed the piece of paper to Frank. ‘Sweet?’

  ‘Got it,’ replied Frank

  ‘Don’t stuff it up,’ warned Hammer, before he turned and walked west towards Louisa Road.

  ***

  Tel El Kebir Camp, March 1916

  Sticks Sullivan burst into the tent with his head bowed and shoulders slumped. He stomped his feet like a two-year-old throwing a tantrum; his toxic mood had not considered Clarence, who was in the middle of a whole bundle of letters he had received from home. Most of them were from Ruth, but there were a couple from his mother and even one from his former editor, John Blake.

  Clarrie realised that his mate had made a ruckus to prompt him to ask what troubled him, so he obliged. The list of baby names Ruth had picked out would have to wait.

  ‘What’s up, Sticks?’

  ‘Flamin’ 15th Brigade bastards!’

  ‘Who?’ Clarrie stifled a laugh and changed to a sitting position. He was now more intrigued than usual by one of Jack’s predicaments.

  ‘Bloody Victorians, that’s who. Bloody 15th. You can bet all the tea in China it’s rigged.’

  Clarence suddenly caught on. Again, he said to himself as he placed a photo of Ruth— included in one of the letters—in his breast pocket. ‘Lost the lot, mate?’

  Sticks shrugged to confirm what Clarence really didn’t need to ask.

  ‘You have to lay off the cards, Jack, it doesn’t seem like much fun to be losing your money all the time.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Mr “I don’t do a thing wrong,” but it’s a bit late now. Anyway, it wasn’t cards.’

  ‘Well two-up then,’ snapped Clarrie, ‘what’s the difference?’

  ‘Wasn’t flaming two-up either, ya big sheila,’ moaned Sticks. He looked despondent, as he half-heartedly kicked his kit that lay on the floor.

  ‘Well what was it then mate?’ Clarrie softened his tone.

  Jack lit a smoke and drew back deeply. He held his breath for a few seconds, as if in thought. Suddenly he blew a cloud of smoke towards the roof of the tent and said, ‘beetles.’

  Clarrie sat silently, not sure if he had heard correctly. ‘Sorry, mate, did you say beetles?’

  ‘Yeh, beetles. That’s right.’

  ‘I know I’m not up to speed on these things,’ replied Clarrie, a broad smile on his face. ‘But how on God’s earth do you bet on beetles.’

  ‘It’s really quite simple,’ said Sticks calmly. ‘You catch a Scarab beetle.’

  ‘Scarab beetle?’ asked Clarrie, amazed.

  Sticks nodded, a little annoyed at the interruption. ‘You get the beetle, make a circle in the sand and build up the edges so it can’t escape.’ Sticks looked intently at Clarrie while he illustrated the process with his hands, as if he was the expert instructor and his mate had paid good money to be at his tutorial. ‘Then you make three gaps in the wall and bet on which one he leaves through.’

  A brief silence was shattered by a laugh from Clarrie that even surprised himself. Clarence Miller rolled on the tent floor with tears in his eyes. The laugh came from deep in his belly, but it changed to a kind of squeal when he had to catch his breath.

  ‘Righto, Miller, get a hold of yourself,’ cried Sticks.

  Clarrie took a few giant breaths in an effort to control himself. He raised himself to a sitting position once again and rested his forearms on his knees. He looked up at his tragic but lovable mate and couldn’t resist the temptation. ‘Beetles,’ squealed Clarrie, as he broke into another fit of laughter.

  ‘Get nicked, Miller,’ barked Sticks as he playfully kicked him in the guts. ‘This is serious, I’m broke.’

  Clarrie pulled himself onto his knees. He still laughed quietly, but he held his right palm outstretched in a sign of truce. Clarrie looked straight at his friend and then towards his pack. A quiet voice in his head warned him of the dangers of what he contemplated, but a louder voice knocked the quiet one off its perch.

  Private Miller thrust his arm into his kit and rummaged around. He withdrew his hand and revealed a thick, leather-bound notebook with large pieces of paper of various sizes and colours protruding from top and bottom. Clarrie undid the buckle that secured it and opened the book. He flicked through the pages and pulled out several ten-bob and five-pound notes that were a part of a thicker stash.

  ‘You never saw that,’ said Clarence as he rose to his feet.

  ‘Not a th
ing, mate.’

  ‘Come with me, Sullivan,’ said Clarence, as he looked straight into his mate’s eyes. ‘Let’s go and sort these Victorians out, the 14th can’t be pushed around. What do you say?’

  Sticks, in a state of mild shock, was almost lost for words. He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘You bloody beauty.’

  Both men strode through the tent opening and turned right towards the 15th Brigade area in the Tel El Kebir camp. They walked side by side, linked by that fundamental ingredient of mateship; when the time comes, you help your mate, no matter what. Clarrie didn’t understand what drove men to waste good money on gambling, but he could sense his friend was despondent, and apart from his desire to pull Sticks out of a hole, he was also exhilarated by the prospect of doing something, although not out-and-out criminal, against army regulations.

  ***

  ‘Back for a bit more punishment, Sticks?’ sniggered a well-built private, who pretended to read an old newspaper. He sat on an upturned crate outside one of the many tents erected in neat rows at Tel El Kebir. His barb delivered, the private returned his attention to his paper; he did his best to disguise his real role of being point for the gambling school inside. Casually he looked up again, as if in general and meaningless conversation. He looked left and then right to pass his trained eye over the other tents. ‘Who’s your mate?’

  ‘Miller.’

  ‘Wants in does he?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ replied Clarrie, a little too eagerly.

  ‘Who asked you?’ hissed the sentry, as he stood to reveal his impressive height.

  ‘He’s keen to give it a go,’ intervened Sticks, ‘never gambled before,’ he added from the corner of his mouth. ‘Wants to see what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Does he now?’ replied the Digger, his interest in Clarrie suddenly enhanced. ‘Wait here.’

  The tall, well-built soldier with bronzed skin gave a short sharp whistle before he pulled back the tent flap to disappear into its void. Sticks turned to Clarrie and gave him a few tips on how to handle himself, once inside.

  ‘Don’t bet too big too early, ok.’

  ‘You told me that.’

  ‘We don’t want to scare them off. If you go in hard they might think something is up and pull up stumps,’ instructed Sticks.

  ‘How much to start with?’ asked Clarrie.

  ‘Wait till we get inside, but probably a quid or ten bob. By Christ, I want to nail these bastards.’

  Clarrie laughed, and then turned it into a cough as he saw the point-man emerge from the tent.

  ‘Five bob each to get in, ten bob minimum bet,’ stated the private, with a smart-ass smirk on his face.

  ‘What!’ exclaimed Sticks. ‘Ya thieving sod, I was just in here twenty minutes ago.’

  ‘Take it or leave it Sticksy, and watch your mouth,’ said the private. He loosely shadow- boxed to continue the charade of banter amongst friends, while letting Sticks and Clarrie know that they could be knocked out with either one of his impressive fists.

  ‘No problem,’ said Clarrie. He stepped forward confidently with his hand outstretched for the smug sentry to shake. Disarmed by Clarrie’s unexpected move, the impressively built private switched his focus to the novice gambler and tentatively grasped the turned palm. He instantly felt the touch of folded paper, and while he welcomed the discreet move, the calmness of the act sent up a small flare of alarm in the racketeer’s mind. The look-out glanced left and right again, and then stood to one side, while he pocketed the ten-bob note.

  The two mates passed into the gloomy light of the tent; a brume of stale acrid air hit them as they inhaled the by-product of twenty or so perspiring soldiers whose skin hadn’t seen water in days. Sticks surveyed the room and spotted ‘Bomber’ Kendall. The nickname was said to have originated from his penchant for blowing things up in his life as a civilian on the streets of St Kilda.

  Private Christopher Bomber Kendall chose to enlist in the army, but he wasn’t your regular citizen who had reacted to a call of patriotism, nor did he possess an idealistic grudge that fed a desire to fight the Hun. Christopher Kendall was a small-time, but nasty, Melbourne crook. He had crossed paths with the law on one too many occasions, and had been given the choice by the local magistrate to either join the AIF or go to the clink. Bomber had surprised and aggravated the magistrate at the time, when he had taken a few moments to make his decision. But after he had remembered a few members of the Melbourne underworld that were behind bars and would eagerly await his arrival, he elected for the Infantry.

  Bomber Kendall made eye contact with Sticks, and welcomed the hapless gambler with the warmest of smiles. He was more than happy to take his money, and if his mate was only half as hopeless as Sticks, he could make plenty off him too.

  ‘Sticks, good to see you again mate,’ Bomber said softly. He observed his own rule of muffled speech. Two men, almost identical to the bronzed sentry outside, stood at each shoulder to keep an eye on everything and everyone.

  While Clarrie and Sticks had just entered into a thriving little gambling school, it wasn’t your regular venue. The military police or ‘Jacks’, as some called them, would love nothing more than to discover this unusual, yet profitable little enterprise, bust the game up, and crack a few skulls in the process. The bronzed Aussie who guarded the front door was on constant lookout not only for MPs, but also for officers and banned clients, and had developed a series of whistles that could be used to warn Bomber. Any patrons who shouted, or made a nuisance of themselves in general, would be expelled from the tent.

  Bomber returned his attention to the game in progress, while Clarrie glanced around at the rest of the faces that circled the small sand arena—a miniature Coliseum. The frenzied crowd hissed through gritted teeth as they willed the sacred symbol of Egypt towards the gate they had bet on. Clarence found the incessant noise unnerving, and although it was subdued and most likely inaudible outside, the repetitiveness of the sound made the tent feel smaller than it actually was.

  Clarrie watched on intently. He realised that what had initially seemed like a ludicrous and moronic concept had captivated him to the point where, after only a few minutes, he found himself silently egging the tiny beetle towards any one of the three gates. After a few minutes of indecision, the beetle finally settled on a course and passed through Gate Two. Men pumped their fists or mockingly pushed a mate in the back of the head, as a flurry of monetary exchanges took place in an orderly and precise manner.

  All debts settled, Bomber, with the beetle gently held between his thumb and forefinger, called for new bets. He handed the struggling insect to the starter—another Digger in his employ—before he held up his hand up for bets to be finalised. Clarrie and Sticks held a brief conference, nodded to each other, and then placed a bet of ten bob on Gate Two.

  All gates had odds set at even money, put ten bob on, get ten bob back. Everyone had to bet with the house; side bets were not allowed—nothing in it for Bomber—and the beetle had three minutes to make his exit. If he failed to pass through a gate—unless you bet that way—it was a win for the house, as it was if you bet on a losing gate. Not the best odds for the punter, but beggars can’t be choosers, and in the case of most Australian soldiers, who would be likely to bet on two flies that crawled up a wall, Bomber’s tent was as good as it got in the Egyptian desert.

  Call it beginner’s luck, but Clarrie won on his first three bets, all on Gate Two. He took a loss on Gate Three and then won another two on the faithful Gate Two. With punters being superstitious by nature, he was beginning to draw attention from men either side of him. Some delayed on their bets until they could ascertain which way the newcomer had gone. Sticks looked up to see Bomber whispering to his starter. The starter then casually reached into his pocket, and under the cover of bets being exchanged, placed an unknown substance on the beetle’s legs.

  Being witness to the act, Sticks casually feigned interest in bets being placed with the bagman, while he discreetly tugg
ed on Clarrie’s arm.

  ‘Hold off, mate,’ whispered Sticks.

  ‘Why, I’ve got the hang of this.’

  ‘Up your bet and go no-gate,’ hissed Sticks. He tried to appear calm but there was stress in his voice. He could see an opportunity vaporise in the dingy air of the makeshift gambling den.

  ‘You’re mad, Sticks, the beetle loves the Two Gate.’

  With time running out before bets were closed, Sticks was about ready to throttle Clarrie. He took a deep breath and lent towards his mate’s ear. He spoke slowly, and in accordance with house rules—softly.

  ‘Clarence. Just fucking do it!’

  Clarrie was slightly shocked, but realised the tone in Jack’s voice left no room for debate. He nodded in the affirmative, and in an attempt not to announce their bet to the rest of the mob, folded two five-pound notes into the palm of his hand, before he approached the bagman.

  ‘Ten quid on no-gate,’ whispered Clarrie. Private Miller slipped the equivalent of a month’s wages into the money-man’s hands.

  A concerned look came over the bagman’s face. He wiped his sweaty forehead with his upper arm and then turned to speak to his boss. Sticks pretended to be interested in goings-on elsewhere and tried desperately not to smile, as he lip-read each swear word that came from Bomber’s mouth. Kendall realised he was cornered and reluctantly approved the bet. He knew that a rejection could spread doubt throughout his clientele, which would cause bigger losses than the one he was about to receive.

  Anyway, Bomber thought, all the other stupid pricks will bet on a gate, I will still win, but not as much as I would’ve.

  When the three minutes lapsed and the beetle had barely moved, let alone pass through a gate, all the punters, except Clarence and Sticks, cursed. Bomber’s gaze could have burnt a hole through the pair of mates from 14th Brigade, and if he was back in St Kilda, he may have attempted something just as painful. Bomber stood still and tapped his foot repeatedly on the soft floor. His glare was fixed across the tent, while he whispered something to one of his henchmen, who nodded and then circled the crowd.