Love in the Years of Lunacy

by Mandy Sayer

  Pearl slapped her hand on the mattress. ‘Don’t you get it? I’ll dress in your army uniform and take your place!’

  Martin considered this for a moment then shook his head. ‘There’s no way you’d pull it off.’

  ‘I fooled a whole bunch of people yesterday,’ Pearl reminded him. ‘Including some American MPs—even James thought I was you at first.’

  Martin paced the room, trailing cigarette ash across the carpet. ‘You know bugger all about the army,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Neither do you!’ she retorted. ‘All you’ve been doing the last year is travelling around, playing in bands and having a good time.’

  ‘Not in New Guinea, for Christ’s sake.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Why the hell would you want to go there anyway?’

  Pearl felt a blush creep up her neck. ‘James,’ she said. ‘He’s being shipped out there too. Mart, I have to find him—I’m in love with him! We have to be together.’

  There was a long silence between them. Pearl could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the parlour, counting down the few remaining hours until Martin had to report to Victoria Barracks.

  ‘It’s not like I’d be the first woman ever to do it. What about those women last century who dressed up as men so they could travel with their sailor husbands? And you know there are Aboriginal girls in the outback who cut their hair short and wear men’s clothes to work as drover’s boys. And don’t forget the big Boxing Day fight down in White City.’

  That particular story was legendary in the Willis family. In 1908, the first black world heavyweight boxing champion, Jack Johnson, nicknamed the Galveston Giant, was considered unbeatable, until a match was scheduled in Sydney between him and the boxer Tommy Burns. At the time, White City was the biggest stadium in Australia. It could seat over ten thousand spectators, and every ticket was sold out weeks in advance. One of these tickets was purchased by their father, Aub. The event was such an anticipated international spectacle that the New York Herald commissioned the American novelist Jack London to report on the bout; he happened to be in Australia at the time, accompanied by his wife, Charmaine. She was as much a sporting enthusiast as her husband, and was outraged when she found out that women were barred from attending the fight. So she dressed in one of her husband’s suits, pulled a man’s felt hat onto her head and bluffed her way past the ticket collectors. The reason Pearl and Martin knew this story so well was that Charmaine happened to be sitting next to Aub in the stadium, and on her other side was London himself, scribbling madly in a notebook as Johnson pummelled Burns onto the floor of the ring during the fourteenth round.

  ‘It was the hands that gave her away,’ Aub had always said. ‘White, smooth and manicured. No man except a surgeon or a nancy looks after his fingernails so well.’

  Pearl grinned at Martin, picked up a pair of scissors from the sideboard, and began clipping at the air.

  After about quarter of an hour, she looked in the mirror. The crew cut she now sported looked like a pale yellow cap against her head.

  Martin then instructed her in how to perform drill, to obey commands, how to turn. She memorised the markers, looking down at her feet: ‘Check, T, L, V, Away!’ Using a broom as a prop, she learned how to shoulder a rifle, then how to salute, raising her hand slowly and abruptly bringing it down. At first it felt awkward, as if she were dancing some stiff-limbed quadrille with the broom in her arms as a wordless partner. But as she marched and saluted around the room, it seemed more and more like a music rehearsal, and she found her body gradually absorbing this strange new choreography.

  Pearl gave Martin a slap on the back. ‘Now all we have to do is work on you.’

  Martin did a double take. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, I’ve turned into you; now you have to turn into me.’

  Martin bristled. ‘No way. I’ll just look like a poofter—or a lunatic.’

  ‘You won’t look like a lunatic,’ Pearl argued. ‘You’ll look like me.’

  Martin gave her a withering glare.

  ‘Christ, Mart, I just cut off all my hair! You can’t back out now. You’ll only have to wear a dress and hat for a few hours, until you get to Pookie’s farm.’ She softened her voice. ‘In lots of ways, it’s better if you have to become a woman. Otherwise someone’s sure to recognise you.’

  Martin sighed heavily. ‘You don’t know squat about the military.’

  She was growing frustrated with his pessimism. ‘Look, I won’t be at the front, fighting the Japanese. I’ll be in a bloody jazz band, playing the saxophone!’

  When he buried his face in his hands and didn’t respond she finally lost her temper.

  ‘Fine then,’ she said. ‘Fucking go off to New Guinea. Fucking get killed for all I care.’ She stormed out of his room and up the stairs.

  It wasn’t until she was closing her bedroom door that he caught up with her and hissed, ‘All right. You’ve got the bloody swearing down pat. Let’s go.’

  After she and Martin had traded identity cards and clothes, she sat down to do the hardest thing of all, which was to write a letter to her parents and Hector, detailing why she was running away. In many ways the explanation she gave was true—she wanted desperately to play music professionally again, and she knew she couldn’t do it while still living in the house of her parents or in the home of her husband-to-be. Other things she wrote were also true: that she cared deeply for the three of them; that she hoped they could one day forgive her. She also left a fair bit out, like where exactly she was running away to, and under what guise, and the fact that she was in love with another man.

  Once she was through the gates of Victoria Barracks, she joined a line of soldiers waiting to report, fingering Martin’s papers and mouthing his serial number again, his regiment, the detachment he was supposed to join. There was a hush over the city. All she heard was the soft rhythm of men reciting their names and numbers, the occasional cry of a bird. As she moved on up in the line her legs grew weak and for the first time she worried about what would happen if she were caught out. Fortunately, she didn’t need to undergo a medical examination because Martin had already passed one the year before when he’d enlisted and signed up for the entertainment unit.

  She was growing impatient with the slow progress of the line, half expecting to see her parents running towards her in their dressing gowns and slippers, or a police paddy wagon pulling up.

  When she felt a clap on her back her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.

  ‘Willis!’ somebody cried.

  She swung around, expecting to see some burly colonel who had come to have her arrested. Instead, she found a slight, slim soldier with a dimpled chin and slanted blue eyes.

  ‘I saw your name on the roster. God, I thought I’d never see you again.’

  Pearl stared at him blankly. She knew she should say something, but was afraid her voice might not come out right.

  ‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’

  She put down her backpack, confused.

  ‘I lived up the road from you when we were kids. Charles. Charlie Styles.’

  As soon as he said his name she recognised the little blond boy who’d played the cornet.

  ‘Charlie!’ she cried, then, remembering she was supposed to be a man, slapped him on the back. ‘That’s right,’ she said as they shook hands. ‘You moved to the mountains and we never saw you again.’

  ‘I’m in the band too,’ he said, taking the saxophone case from her. ‘Come on, you don’t have to register here.’

  Pearl shouldered the backpack again and followed Charlie across a car park. She couldn’t believe her good luck in running into an old friend—and one who she and Martin hadn’t seen in over ten years.

  He led her down past a group of soldiers loading crates onto a truck and over to a group of a dozen or so men who were sitting around on drum cases or on their backpacks, smoking. They were all in uniform, but she noticed they were not as groomed as the soldiers she’d seen i
n line. One had his hat on backwards; another had no laces in his boots; a few had their sleeves rolled up.

  ‘It’s about time, Willis,’ declared a red-faced fiftyish man with curly hair the colour of snow.

  Pearl handed him her movement papers and he glanced over them quickly.

  ‘First time on overseas duty?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, this isn’t going to be like the little picnic you had last year touring Australia with Merv Sent and his bloody Senders.’

  All the men chuckled, but she could hear the underlying tension in their laughter.

  ‘By this time next month you’ll be jumping off the stage, dodging exploding shells, living in foxholes and sleeping in your own shit—or somebody else’s.’

  There was more laughter. Pearl shifted the pack on her back from one shoulder to the other. She wondered when she was supposed to salute.

  ‘And I’ll be right there,’ he added, ‘making sure none of you blokes play one bum note or drop a single beat.’

  For the next half hour they helped load supplies onto a truck, then the band clambered onto the back of it with their instruments. They were driven from the barracks through the empty city streets until they pulled up on a wharf at Woolloomooloo Bay.

  Predawn light filtered across the harbour. A huge grey ship was anchored in the bay, engines purring, with a single tendril of smoke curling from one funnel. At the other end of the wharf men carried crates of supplies up a wide gangplank.

  Pearl decided to stick close to Charlie, who obviously knew his way around. She mimicked his every movement, from the way he shouldered his backpack to the brisk steps he took as he fell in line with the others. She followed his swagger across the dock and onto the gangplank that rose sharply into the air at a forty-five-degree angle. Struggling against the weight of her pack, which was on the verge of tipping her backwards, she held the saxophone case tightly and with her free hand gripped the railing, scared that she’d topple into the harbour and her great escape would be abruptly halted before it had even begun.

  At last she staggered onto the deck, relieved to be on a level plane. Every inch of the ship seemed to be painted the same dull, monochromatic grey. As she stood catching her breath, she was astonished to find herself up so high, as if she’d just scaled some enormous building. From where she stood she could see the sun rising behind Shark Island, the outline of the north shore, even the cluster of buildings at the top of William Street.

  ‘Come on, Willis. We’re not on holidays!’ The white-haired CO jostled her forward and she found herself standing in yet another line. After a few moments a supplies clerk issued her with a yellow life jacket. Further along the line another handed her a cartridge belt with a water canteen attached. And then, further along again, she was shocked to find a jowly soldier handing her a large submachine gun.

  ‘I won’t need one of those,’ she said, holding up the saxophone. ‘I’m a musician.’

  ‘Fartin’ into that horn ain’t goin’ to protect you from Tojo, sonny.’ The soldier thrust the gun into her free hand and ordered her to join her unit.

  She struggled along the deck, trying to manage the life jacket, the cartridge belt and canteen, the saxophone and the gun which, dangling from the crook of her arm by its canvas strap, seemed more like some huge, odd, unwieldy handbag than a deadly weapon. She joined the rest of the musos, who were now lounging against the railing at the stern of the ship, smoking and trading jokes. Now that she’d safely crossed the first difficult threshold undetected she was suddenly overcome with nerves. All her moves thus far had been enacted under the veil of dawn, when it was hard to make out more than the outline of another’s face or the height of the man standing next to you. But would her disguise hold up in the full light of day?

  A group of teary women stood on the wharf, waving handkerchiefs and underwear, throwing streamers, blowing kisses, and for a few minutes she longed to be one of those girls wearing woollen coats and earrings, girls who’d remain in Sydney, cutting coupons, cooking cakes without butter, working in a factory every day. She suddenly felt stifled by her brother’s military uniform, weighed down by the gun in her hand, and longed for curlers in her hair, rouge on her cheeks, stays against her thighs. She wanted what Martin would now have for the duration of the war: a warm bed, a doting friend, and few responsibilities.

  The ship pulled away from the dock in the early rays of the spring morning. The coloured streamers stretched and snapped, drifting onto the surface of the bay like thousands of discarded ribbons. Seagulls arced and wheeled above the deck, squawking hungrily. Pearl gripped the railing and watched sunlight glancing off the water, the first ferries chugging across the harbour, the city growing smaller. As they sailed past Garden Island, she caught a glimpse of her own house at the end of the street. The blackout shades had been removed from the windows, and she could see a figure in the front yard, leaning against the fence, though she couldn’t make out if it was a man or woman. She felt a rush in her head and was scared she’d start crying, right there, in front of all those soldiers. Instead, to calm herself, she made herself repeat Martin’s serial number, then raised her hand and gave a little wave to whomever it was standing in her garden.

  ‘Hey, Willis?’ She turned to see Charlie Styles, standing with a thin private who looked as if he were in his mid-twenties. He had wiry red hair and buck teeth, and at once reminded Pearl of a starving rabbit. ‘This is my mate, Blue. Second trombone.’

  She was about to nod and say, ‘Pleased to meet you,’ when Blue’s hand shot out. She grabbed it and shook it firmly. ‘Martin,’ she declared. ‘Tenor sax.’

  ‘I know.’ Blue scratched his head, pulled out a strand of hair, examined it briefly before dropping it. ‘I used to listen to you at the Troc. When you soloed on “Tuxedo Junction” my mother used to cry.’

  ‘That bad was I?’

  ‘No, you were that bloody good.’

  The praise had the opposite effect of its intention, causing her to worry about the fact that she hadn’t played in public for over a year.

  ‘Us three are sharing a cabin!’ said Charlie brightly, waving a piece of paper. ‘The boss skipper likes to keep the brass section together.’

  ‘You mean the poof section together,’ snarled a voice. Pearl glanced over her shoulder to see a private smirking at them. He had a thin mouth and his dark eyes were set wide apart in his head, which made him look like some kind of lizard. ‘So you can blow each others’ horns,’ he added, and walked away.

  Charlie, ignoring the man, cocked his head and pointed with his chin to the upper deck. ‘C’mon.’

  Pearl, surprised by the man’s hostility, shouldered her backpack and picked up her equipment. She followed them through the crowd of soldiers. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

  Charlie snorted. ‘Nigel Moss. First alto sax. Got a transfer from an artillery unit into our concert party—his father’s a captain.’

  As she climbed the stairs to the second deck Pearl made a mental note to steer clear of Nigel Moss.

  Now that they were up even higher, she could see that they were being joined by a convoy of three other ships and were sailing between the heads of the harbour into the infinite expanse of the Pacific. From this distance the other ships looked like toy boats in a bathtub.

  ‘She used to be a luxury ocean liner,’ announced Charlie as he opened the door to their cabin. ‘Poor old love. Now she’s just a war ship.’

  As they squeezed into the cabin Pearl noticed that every former fitting and feature had been stripped to make room for the three tiers of canvas hammocks that took up almost all the available space. The porthole had been painted over in compliance with blackout regulations; the only other things in the berth were a cupboard and the mahogany panelling, vestiges of the ship’s former life. There was an ensuite bathroom with cracked floral tiles and tarnished brass taps out of which flowed a stream of rusty water.

  They flipped a sixpence to see who’d get the bottom
bunk. Blue won the toss. Charlie got the middle bunk, and Pearl the top. As she and Charlie stowed their gear into a corner of the cabin to make more room, Blue stepped into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. At first Pearl assumed that he was overly conscious of his appearance, but then she noticed he had a bald patch about the size of a penny on the crown of his head and that he was meticulously plucking his hair out one strand at a time.

  She glanced at Charlie, one eyebrow raised. He shook his head briefly in a kind of I’ll explain later gesture and pulled a pouch of tobacco from a pocket in his pack.

  ‘We’re just going out for a smoke, Blue,’ he called.

  The convoy of ships was now surrounded entirely by the ocean, and if it were not for Charlie and his endless chatter Pearl would have been terrified. As she strolled with him around the upper deck, Charlie told her about Blue. They’d been in the same detachment in New Guinea for most of the year before, performing for troops along the Kokoda Track. Just before the Aussies took Ioribaiwa, Blue collapsed into a foxhole, and it was later discovered he’d contracted both dysentery and malaria. He’d spent the last six months in the Blue Mountains, recuperating at the Hydro Majestic Hotel, which had been converted into a military sanatorium. ‘That’s where he started pulling his hair out,’ said Charlie. ‘I used to visit him whenever I got leave.’ Today was Blue’s first day back on duty.

  Charlie, on the other hand, seemed unfazed by the cramped conditions of the ship, by what lay ahead of them when they reached their destination. He didn’t walk, but rather bounced like a pogo stick, and always seemed to be bubbling over with enthusiasm.

  ‘I came to the Troc once, just to listen to you,’ he said, the wind pasting his flaxen hair against his head. ‘But you’d already left on your tour of duty.’ They were sitting on crates to the side of a volleyball court, though the net had long since been removed and the poles that had held it there were now used as mounts for artillery guns. The deck was packed with both Australian and American soldiers, some black, but mostly white. There was barely enough room to raise a rifle and many sat huddled in groups, playing cards or two-up.