Love in the Years of Lunacy

by Mandy Sayer

  ‘White Yankee soldiers only, Burl,’ he repeated for the hundredth time. ‘Not even your precious James would be able to get in—assuming he did get back to Sydney in time.’

  Pearl frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  But Martin avoided her eyes, shaking his head.

  Sensing that there was something more to his casual comment than he was willing to let on, she asked him again, but he remained evasive.

  ‘I bloody well know you’re hiding something, Mart. Come on, out with it.’

  Martin sighed and gazed at the ceiling. Finally, he rose, and picked up his tobacco pouch and matches. ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘In my room.’

  He closed the bedroom door behind him, his face serious.

  ‘We were in Queensland, in the middle of nowhere,’ he began, ‘miles from the next camp, when the clutch of the bus gave out.’

  Pearl sat on the bed, hugging herself, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘The only way we could drive the bus was to put it into reverse. Nine and a half hours of driving backwards through the bush. Can you imagine?’

  It was near dark before they reached their destination, a base camp with two narrow airstrips cut into a forest. They were supposed to have performed a lunchtime show but were half a day overdue. There were six or seven corrugated-iron sheds along one side of the airstrip and the olive-green peaks of dozens of canvas tents. On the other side of the strip was a band of men cutting down trees and clearing bush.

  Their next concert was scheduled for lunchtime the next day, at a camp just outside of Mackay, almost two hundred miles away, and they’d need to be on the road by seven. So while the company performed on the stage that folded out from the back of the bus, two mechanics lay beneath the engine at the front, trying to fix the clutch. Sometimes their tools could be heard clanging between the beats. Torches were lit during the second half of the show and the GIs joined in on some of the new American swing songs Martin had arranged and added to the repertoire.

  After the show, Martin noticed one of the GIs was still working on the clutch, his army boots sticking out from beneath the bus. The beam of a flashlight flickered now and then, and Martin heard a voice saying, ‘Come on, dammit. Come on!’

  ‘Problems?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ the mechanic called back. ‘MacArthur lost the Philippines. Tojo’s still holding Lae. And your bus is some kind o’ mama, man.’ Martin heard the man drop a tool and pick up something else. ‘Your music was good though.’

  ‘You’re into music then?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure. Ain’t heard much since I left Sydney though. Hey, you ever heard that guy Fogwald? I heard he plays a pretty mean ’bone.’

  Martin drained his beer. ‘Lionel Bogwald? I used to work for him.’

  ‘No, shit! What, at that joint with the stage that turns round and all those gorgeous dames?’

  ‘Yep,’ said Martin. ‘In fact, my sister’s one of those gorgeous dames.’

  ‘She play tenor, too?’

  ‘Alto. Well, she used to. She’s getting married next week.’ Martin took out a cigarette, and as he struck a match he saw the mechanic emerge from beneath the bus. He stood up briskly and dusted down his uniform. His flashlight was wedged into his left trouser pocket, and in the small disc of light it cast Martin found himself gazing into a familiar face.

  ‘It was James?’ Pearl breathed, not daring to move.

  Martin drew nervously on his rollie. ‘He’s just as good at fixing buses as he is playing his sax.’

  Pearl had a thousand questions jostling in her mind.

  ‘Well, what happened then?’ she demanded. ‘Did he ask after me?’

  ‘I told him you were fine.’ The doorbell chimed.

  ‘You’ve known all this time and you didn’t tell me?’ Pearl could hear her voice rising.

  The bell rang again—one, two, three times.

  Martin let out an exasperated sigh and skirted around his desk, heading for the bedroom door. ‘This is exactly why I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d carry on like—’

  ‘Like what?’

  Martin paused, his hand on the doorknob, and Pearl threw her empty beer bottle across the room. It bounced off the desk and fell to the floor.

  ‘God, you’re a selfish bastard,’ she raged. ‘Is this about Roma? Has she had the baby yet?’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Martin. ‘You’re about to marry someone else!’ He flung open the bedroom door only to find Lulu standing in the hallway.

  ‘Boy,’ she announced, waving an envelope in her hand. ‘Give me.’

  Pearl could see it was an army telegram.

  ‘Great!’ cried Martin. ‘My movement orders.’

  He grabbed the envelope and ripped it open, but instead of exclaiming in excitement about his next tour, like Pearl expected, his face paled and his hands began to shake.

  ‘Christ—’ he murmured, still staring at the telegram. ‘They’re sending me to New Guinea.’

  11

  Martin lay on the bed, his face tight.

  Pearl, who had been down to the basement for more beer, filled his glass. ‘Maybe it’s not as bad as you think,’ she said.

  ‘George Franklin up the road was shot in Wau,’ her brother replied bitterly. ‘The Weaver brothers were grenaded.’

  ‘You’ll just be playing in camps and hospitals again.’

  ‘Yeah,’ muttered Martin. ‘Camps right at the front. I met this one bloke in Brisbane, his piano was blown up in an air raid in Buna before he even got a chance to play it. He’s lucky to have three fingers left.’

  ‘MacArthur reckons all the big battles are over now. Kokoda. Milne Bay—’ she took a swig from the bottle ‘—the Japs are retreating north.’

  Martin was holding his glass so tightly his knuckles were white and Pearl feared it would shatter in his hand. ‘I couldn’t kill anyone,’ he murmured, staring into his glass. ‘Not even myself.’

  ‘Request a transfer,’ she suggested. ‘Another tour of Australia.’

  Martin snorted, rubbing his finger around the wet rim of the glass. ‘I was bloody lucky to get the furlough when Lulu was sick.’

  A rattle of dinner plates sounded from the kitchen as Lulu set the table.

  ‘You’re still coming to hear Artie, aren’t you?’

  He finished his beer in a single gulp.

  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘We have to give it a go.’

  Martin put the glass down on his bedside table. ‘You’ll never get in, Pearl. Forget it.’ He turned over and pulled the bedclothes over his head.

  ‘Well, if you’re not coming, you still have to help me get in.’ She picked up the blankets and wrenched them back off him. ‘Come on, Mart. Don’t be such a coward.’

  When that failed to sway him she lowered her voice. ‘You saw James weeks ago and never told me. Come on, you owe me one.’

  Pearl leaned against the table and folded her arms.

  Martin groaned and punched his pillow. Then he crawled out of bed, opened his wardrobe, and pulled a pair of military trousers from a hanger. Pearl stripped off her dress and drew the trousers on. The length was fine, but the waistband sagged around her hips. She tightened the belt to the very last hole in the leather, then Martin handed her the khaki shirt. She slipped into the bathroom, pulled off her blouse and brassiere, and grabbed a roll of bandages, which she wrapped around her chest until it was almost flat. Then she pulled on the shirt and did up the buttons. The gaiters and boots were almost her size, once she tightened the laces. She popped his hat on her head, and gazed at herself in the mirror. A tall, long-haired soldier stared back at her warily.

  ‘We’re going to have to do something about your hair,’ said Martin. ‘Don’t know why you’re bothering, but. You’ll never get in.’

  Pearl gathered her hair and pinned it close to her scalp, then jammed the hat back down on her head so that there was no trace of her blonde locks. Pleased with her own transformation, she strutted proudly around
the room, swinging her arms and saluting.

  ‘You’ve gotta be joking,’ said Martin. ‘Men don’t prance around like that.’ And then he demonstrated his own loose-limbed swagger. He showed her how to sit like a bloke—one ankle crooked against the knee of the other leg, how to salute smartly, how to flick away the burning butt of a cigarette with her thumb and middle finger.

  ‘And don’t forget,’ he added, ‘men swear a lot.’

  ‘Bugger!’ she cried. ‘Bugger! Bastard! Shit!’

  ‘They also piss standing up.’

  Pearl snorted. ‘I’ll need to work on that.’

  Before she left she begged him to change his mind and go with her, but he shook his head and crawled back into bed. He wanted to stay there as long as he could before he was shipped out in less than thirty-six hours.

  As she walked out the door, she heard Martin murmur, ‘By the way . . .’

  She paused, still holding onto the doorknob.

  He was staring up at the ceiling, as if he were mesmerised by the plasterwork. ‘I heard on the bush telegraph that Roma had the baby. A boy. Blue eyes. Everyone says he looks like me.’

  Startled, Pearl opened her mouth to congratulate him, but the look on his face stopped her. ‘Well, I’ll see you later then,’ she said.

  She stuck a note reading do not disturb to her bedroom door so her parents wouldn’t check on her when they returned. She snuck past Lulu and out into the back lane, carrying Martin’s saxophone case.

  Hiding behind a van on the opposite side of the street, she realised she’d forgotten how elegant the Trocadero building was: the sandstone tower that rose from the roof, silhouetted by the setting sun; the black and green stainless-steel strips of the awning; the gleaming glass doors through which she glimpsed again the marble floor of the vestibule and the polished granite walls.

  Martin’s tenor case was wedged between her feet as she stood across the road, watching the queue of uniformed Americans edge along the block, up the stairs and into the crowded foyer. Instead of the redcoats who usually manned the doors, six American MPs stood at the entrance, admitting the soldiers one by one. Already, she’d witnessed a couple of scuffles. Two civilian men dressed in suits had tried to bluff their way past the MPs, as had a pretty young woman in an evening dress on the arm of a barrel-shaped GI. When the civilians refused to leave they were wrestled down to a police truck parked further down the block; the American soldier promptly abandoned the pretty woman when the MPs wouldn’t let her in.

  She practised speaking in Martin’s voice, which had the same cadence as her own, but was two tones deeper and a little more resonant. The line across the road grew shorter; four of the MPs walked inside, leaving only two patrolling the entrance. And this, she quickly realised, was the time to make her move. She swallowed and breathed deeply, pulled back her shoulders, and flexed her buttock muscles. She picked up Martin’s saxophone case and, as if she were about to start playing the sax, counted herself in—one, two, three, four . . . And suddenly she was bolting across George Street, darting between taxis and automobiles, past the GIs still standing in line, up the stairs, not even glancing at the MPs as she made for the door.

  ‘Hey, buddy!’ One of the MPs grabbed her by the arm. For a split second she feared her disguise was a failure and it was blatantly obvious she was a girl in a man’s uniform. But the word buddy was still echoing in her ears and she realised no one had ever called her that before.

  ‘I’m making a delivery,’ she said, trying to make her voice sound gruff.

  The MP swung her around. ‘No Aussies allowed.’

  ‘You don’t understand.’ She pulled away from him. ‘We got a call. From Artie.’

  ‘Sure, Mac.’ He was now bundling her down the steps. ‘Artie Shaw rang you up and personally invited you to the show.’

  She struggled free of him. ‘His sax player—Sam Donahue—his horn got stolen at the airbase. My captain sent me. Castigan. I’m from the concert party headquarters in Pagewood.’

  The MP narrowed his eyes and looked her up and down. ‘What’d you say his name was?’

  ‘Castigan.’

  ‘No, the horn player.’

  ‘Donahue. Sam Donahue.’

  He fixed her with a hard stare, lips pursed, hand on the holster of his gun.

  ‘If he doesn’t get this—’ she held up the black case ‘—Artie’ll have your stripes, mate. Donahue’s his best muso.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’ The MP gave her a shove. ‘I was listening to Donahue back in Chicago before you even knew how to wipe your own ass.’

  ‘Well, you won’t be listening to a damn thing tonight if you don’t let me through.’

  The MP snorted. He muttered something under his breath and shoved her back up the stairs, past the men in line, and pushed her through the open doorway.

  She found herself inhaling the familiar scent of lilies, fresh bunches of which always stood in vases in the foyer, and she glimpsed, through the throng of soldiers, the scarlet carpet, the murals on the wall, the cream velvet chairs and felt a rush of relief—not only to be able to hear Artie’s band live for the first time, but to be back inside the ballroom, the place that had once brought her so much pleasure.

  She pushed her way through the groups of soldiers, around the circular lounge, but she hadn’t even made it as far as the refreshment bar when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Suddenly the same grimacing MP was spinning her around. There was a man at his side dressed in a white sailor’s suit and cap, who was carrying, she could see now, a black tenor saxophone case.

  ‘Okay, wise guy. Out!’ The MP grabbed her sleeve and rammed her through the crowd, out the double doors, and back down the stairs to the street. She stumbled across the footpath, fell over, and landed on top of Martin’s case.

  She lay there for a moment, trying to catch her breath. She could hear jeers and whistles from some of the Americans in the queue. Her right palm was stinging from where she’d skinned it while trying to break her own fall. Her timing, unfortunately, had been no less than disastrous, and she cursed her lousy luck. What were the odds that the real Sam Donahue would turn up at the Trocadero, saxophone in hand, only moments after she’d bluffed her way in?

  She leaned on her elbow and went to get up, when a pain forked through her right knee and up her thigh and she inadvertently let out a girlish cry that sent the nearby GIs into greater peals of laughter. ‘Little Aussie’s gonna cry!’ they mocked.

  Suddenly, she felt two arms engulf her from behind and pull her to her feet as the soldiers began booing and hissing.

  ‘Convicts and niggers stick together.’

  ‘Crims and gollywogs!’

  They were now throwing orange peels and matchboxes. An apple core hit her straight between the eyes. As she ducked, she glimpsed the man who had helped her up and, when she did, it felt as if fifty butterflies were swarming through her stomach and her head might explode. His skin was darker than she’d remembered it from the year before, and he certainly looked older—reddened eyes, sunken cheeks, a triangular scar to the right of his chin—but it was him.

  ‘Jesus, Martin,’ cried James. ‘Where’s Pearl?’

  He’d mistaken her for her brother. She let out a cry and—just to make sure he was actually real—abruptly embraced him, pressing her face into his chest.

  James reeled away and stared at her in shock. All at once, the anger drained from his face and he stood gazing at her with such disbelief that for a moment she was sure he was unhappy to see her.

  ‘Go back to the cotton field,’ cried a man with a Southern accent.

  James ducked as several lollies came flying towards him. ‘Go fuck your mama!’ he yelled back.

  Two GIs lunged towards him, one with a Coke bottle in his hand, screaming, ‘Take this up your ass, Sambo!’ and before Pearl could think she found herself smashing one of them in the face with the saxophone case, while James was ducking and weaving and landing blows on the other. The crowd was ro
aring; the MPs were yelling and trying to pull everyone apart. She pummelled the same man again and again with the case, staggered back, spitting blood, and then a paddy wagon pulled up and two civilian cops leaped out and wrenched them both away.

  James struggled against the copper who was cuffing his hands together. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Easy now, son.’ The metal lock clicked into place. ‘Don’t make things any harder for yourself.’

  ‘They attacked me!’

  ‘They did!’ echoed Pearl.

  ‘Niggers aren’t allowed in,’ snarled one man. Pearl clenched her fist and landed a blow against his stomach. He doubled over and made a strange sound, like a whining dog. She went to hit him again but one of the cops grabbed her by the arms to restrain her and, before she knew what was happening, both she and James were being marched across the footpath and pushed into a paddy wagon. The soldiers on the street cheered and applauded and shouted for an encore.

  The doors slammed behind them.

  ‘Jesus, girl,’ James breathed. ‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to track you down for days.’

  ‘Me?’ She rested against the battered sax case. ‘Where’ve you been? I had my bags packed, for God’s sake. I waited for you, but you never came.’

  The engine kicked over and the wagon began rumbling down the street.

  ‘Didn’t Martin tell you?’ he said sharply. ‘I told him to tell you!’

  ‘Why? Because you didn’t have the guts to tell me yourself?’

  ‘No, dammit. Up in Queensland.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Hell, I fixed his damn bus for him. Told him he could return the favour by telling you I was on my way. Couldn’t get down here any sooner, sweetheart. I’ve been hanging round outside the Troc since Friday, trying to catch you.’

  He was speaking so quickly she was having trouble taking in all the information. ‘Didn’t you get my letters?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’

  ‘I posted ’em to the ballroom.’

  ‘You sent me letters?’