I walked slowly down the beach, careful to place my feet on the smoothest pebbles I could see, until the sting of water on my toes brought tears to my eyes.
Nothing to it, I thought, and walked in.
140 From The Bonzer Book of First World War Poetry, Noelle Miller, ed., Allum & Alexandra Publishing, Sydney, 2002. The beach at Gallipoli, from what little I saw of it, perched high in the stands over the length of a long April night – from the disappearing outcrops of rock as the sun dropped behind us, the sound of the waves slapping onto the beach that supported us through the dark as countless politicians, school groups and military men, Australian and Kiwi and Turkish, kept us entertained through the wee hours of the morn, to the thin white lips of foam that pushed up the beach, tinged orange in the first rays of morning light as the Last Post rang out from the rocky scrubland surrounding us – was far more reminiscent of the beaches back home than the cold, wet beaches of England.
I think about the men streaming up the beach on that first morning, hearts hammering in their chests, the numbing cold of the water seeping into their skin as they plunged their boots into the shallows, the bullets whizzing past their heads, the fear of imminent death and, rising out of the icy Brighton sea, finding my feet on the pebbled floor, wiping the cold water from my stinging eyes, running a shaking hand through my hair, gasping for breath, like I’ve been shot myself, I think I understand.
141 I stumble out of the waves in my underwear. There are no dead mates floating by me in the shallows, no bullets taking chunks out of the beach by my feet, no cannons thundering shells into the cafes and bars of the seafront boulevard before me, no grey warships floating in the water behind. No near-year-long stay on the beach confronting me, no dysentery or typhoid looming on the horizon, no years of life in the saddle to come.
I thought I knew everything Alan went through, and I used to think, if it came down to it, if World War Three started up and even the academics were enlisted and they made a regiment up of the leading lights in Australian literary academia, I’d be at the forefront of the vanguard, broadsword in hand (it’s already an insane proposition, don’t question the choice of weaponry) charging headfirst into the fray.
But now, after everything, I don’t know. I don’t think I’m that person.
142 And I’m ok with that. The men of Lewis’s generation, the Anzacs, and my grandparents’ generation, and even those of my parents’ generation, are a different breed. I can live with it. I couldn’t pull the trigger if my life depended on it. I couldn’t hate Em any more than I could hunt down the Prof and punch in his smug English teeth any more than I could confront Jennifer Hayden face to face. I feel condemned to sit here, cold and wet, on a windy Brighton beach, and keep watching, keep writing, keep fighting in my own, non-spectacular, non-bloody way.
We can’t all be Alan Lewis. We can’t all be Unknown Diggers. We’re not all Jennifer Haydenses.
We don’t all get the girl.
Maybe I would fight in that war, but not at the front of the charge. I’d be somewhere towards the back, making notes. I’m ok with that.
143 I struggled into the warmth of my shirt and hoodie, and then realised that my jeans must have blown away while I was in the water. The sun had disappeared behind a looming evening of cloud, and I shivered, tucking my legs up under my hoodie and wrapping my arms around my knees. I pulled my phone out and looked at the long list of messages, and then, in an act of unrivalled stupidity that I envisioned to be epically cinematic, threw it into the waves. I didn’t throw it hard enough, and instead it shattered into pieces on the rocks before sinking into the shallows.
The water helped clear my head. Like the water at Cottesloe Beach does after a big night – the world’s best hangover cure. It would be so easy to run away, buy a plane ticket back home and throw myself into the ocean and sun, but I can’t bring myself to let him down like that.
Maybe there is a little Alan Lewis in me after all.
144 When I get back to London, I’ll start looking for new openings in UK universities. Bound to be something, as they can’t get enough of us Aussies. Even if it takes me another ten years, working away, avoiding the siren call of the south, avoiding living, I will prove that Alan Lewis wrote these poems.
Might start with Scotland, I’m thinking. Not many South Africans in Scotland, and fewer English twats.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In striving to be authentic to the time period, some of the terms used by the soldiers in this novel are derogatory, though at the time they were terms of common use. No offence is intended in their use.
While the stories in this novel are entirely fictional, some of the books and articles referenced in Matt’s thesis are not, so I would like to acknowledge the following, specifically, for my research purposes as much as Matt’s: ‘On Rupert Brooke’ by Frances Cornford reproduced with the permission of the trustees of the Frances Crofts Cornford Will Trust; The Moods of Ginger Mick by C.J. Dennis, Angus & Robertson, Sydney, 1916; ‘R.H.G. of Boddington’ quote from The Daily News, Monday 13th March 1950, p. 5, accessed via Trove, trove.nla.gov.au; Gallipoli to Tripoli: History of the 10th Light Horse Regiment AIF 1914–1919 by Ian Gill and Neville Browning, Hesperian Press, Carlisle, 2012; The Price of Valour by John Hamilton, Pan Macmillan, Sydney, 2012; Devils on Horses: In the Words of the Anzacs in the Middle East 1916–19 by Terry Kinloch, Exisle Publishing, Auckland, 2007; and The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry edited by George Walter, Penguin Classics, Sydney, 2007.
Likewise, without the following books, neither Alan’s nor Matt’s stories would exist: Harold’s Diary by Ian H. Reece, self-published, Toowong, 2005 (with thanks to Jessica Reece); During the War I Rode A Horse: A Cheeky Story of the 10th Australian Light Horse 1914–1919 by Lyle Vincent Murphy, AuthorHouse, Bloomington, 2011; Great Anzac Stories by Graham Seal, Allen & Unwin, Sydney, 2013; and Somewhere in France by Allan M. Nixon, The Five Mile Press, Fitzroy, 1989.
Thanks also to Jonathan Myerson, Clare Allan, Anthony Cartwright, Kate Worsley and Evie Wyld for their guidance during the first draft of this novel. Massive thanks to Amelia, Amy, David, Jon, Kathleen, Mahvesh, Molly, Remy, Scarlet, Tansy, Tina and Zehra for all the workshops and critiques, and inspiring me with their own wonderful writing.
Thanks to Fremantle Press and the Fogarty Foundation for shortlisting and publishing this novel, and especially to Georgia Richter for making sense of the beast. Sorry for all the footnotes.
Thanks to my crazy, creative family and friends. To my parents, for raising us to make art. To my grandparents, who served their countries so that we can enjoy the lives we do. And to Kate, who has been with me every step of the way. This book wouldn’t exist without you.
HISTORICAL FICTION
David Donald is a 12-year-old boy with an amazing bowling arm. He’s a spinner who becomes the stuff of legend. His guardian, Uncle Michael, is also a spinner – a great Australian bullshit artist, shyster and mythmaker.
It’s between the wars. It’s the glory days of cricket. Together, David and Michael will rout the English and reveal more than a little about the shaping of the Australian psyche.
A sparkling novel with serious overtones and tantalising glimpses of real-life history. Adelaide Advertiser
FROM FREMANTLEPRESS.COM.AU
WITH A DIFFERENCE
In 1860s London, Arthur sees his wife, Emily, suddenly struck down by a pain for which she can find no words, forced to endure harmful treatments and reliant on him for guidance. Meanwhile, in contemporary Perth, Alice, a writer, and her older husband, Duncan, find their marriage threatened as Alice investigates the history of hysteria, female sexuality and the treatment of the female body – her own and the bodies of those who came before.
A masterful exploration of the tangled relationship between body and self; bold and intellectually tough, and intensely lyrical. Lee Kofman
AND ALL GOOD BOOKSTORES
First published 2021 by
FREMANTLE PRESS
25 Quarry Street, Fremantle WA 6160
(PO Box 158, North Fremantle WA 6159)
www.fremantlepress.com.au
Copyright © Michael Burrows, 2021
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover images Shutterstock and iStock.
Designed by Nada Backovic, nadabackovic.com.
ISBN 9781925816341 (paperback)
ISBN 9781925816358 (ebook)
Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Local Government, Sport and Cultural Industries.
Publication of this title was assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.
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