Billy Mack's War (5 page)

‘Mrs Grayson says hello.'

‘Oh, she came in? That's good.'

‘And Ma, guess what? I talked to Bobby Suffolk!'

‘Is that right?' she said. ‘How is he?'

‘Good, I think. The parade was real good too, Ma! All them soldiers! You should have seen it!'

‘That's great, Billy,' she said, with another one of those quick little smiles. ‘Now do as I asked and find the twins for me.'

‘Sure, Ma,' I replied. ‘Will I bring them back here?'

‘Yes, just bring them to me.' She said it without looking at me. She was gazing over my shoulder at the door into the ball, and I turned to see that Mrs Suffolk was behind me with her three sons, Bobby, James and Doug. She was laughing and smiling, ever so happy.

‘What's wrong, Ma?' I asked.

‘Nothing's wrong. Just get the twins, Billy.'

I went.

I knew what was wrong. Of course I did. I might have been only twelve, but I wasn't stupid. Watching those celebrations was killing Ma, but it wasn't like she'd had only a few days to get used to the idea of Dad not coming home. We hadn't heard anything at all from him for over three years, so I don't think she was expecting any news now. I suppose it was just seeing the war coming to an end, and seeing those boys marching down the main street of Evansbridge, seeing them hugging their mothers and girlfriends, knowing that they'd be lying their heads on their own pillows in their own houses for the first time in many long months.

‘How are your brothers going?' I asked Doug in the schoolyard, a couple of weeks after the parade.

‘Oh, it's smashing,' he said, tossing his cricket ball to me. ‘Jimmy's been showing me how you lay a land mine. He was in demo,' he told me. Again.

‘Where are you getting land mines from?' I asked, throwing the ball back.

He looked at me like I was some kind of half-wit. ‘We're not using
real
ones,' he said. ‘He's showing me with the lids of jars. I can show you too, if you like. Come over to my place after school and I'll show you then.'

‘I can't,' I said. ‘I've got jobs to do at home. You can come if you want, but.'

‘What sort of jobs?'

‘The usual stuff,' I replied. ‘Slopping the pigs, helping with the milking, feeding the mare. You know, the same as every other day.'

Doug turned up his nose. His father worked in town, so Doug didn't know much about farms. Granddad said it showed, too, but Doug was all right. He was just a bit soft, that's all.

As soon as school was out I grabbed my gear and took off for home, which was about a mile and a half from the middle of Evansbridge. The hill s were almost glowing after all the rain we'd had, and the cows were black dots sharply outlined against the bright green of the grass. On a hill nearby, the ground had just been turned and the soil was such a rich red-brown that it looked edible. Sometimes when you grow up in a place all your life you start to forget what it's really like, but I knew, I could tell, that the country around Evansbridge was beautiful. To anyone, I mean. I could see why Dad had chosen to stay here when he came out to Tasmania as a young man. I suppose it reminded him a lot of Scotland.

It wasn't just the colour of the lush hills and the dark soil that kept Dad in Tasmania, though. There was something else that caught his eye — my mother. Ma had told me about the first time she saw Freddy McAuliffe. She said she was kneading bread in the farmhouse kitchen when a tall young man came in. ‘His face was red and his hands were dirty, but his smile was as broad as his shoulders,' she told me, her eyes going all soft and dreamy. ‘He asked me for a glass of water, but I didn't understand him, since his accent was so thick. He had to get it himself in the end.'

She soon worked out that Freddy was visiting Australia on a long working holiday. ‘To toughen meself up', he said. He was planning to return to Scotland to attend university, but once he saw Tom Carlyle's youngest daughter, Alice, all his plans changed. He and Granddad built a cottage above the creek about a quarter of a mile beyond the main farmhouse, and that was where he brought Ma home to when they got back from their honeymoon in St Helens. That was the house where I was born and had always lived.

I think Ma was glad to be living so close to her parents, especially with Dad away. We spent most of our evenings up at the big house, singing at the piano or listening to the news on Granddad's new radiogram. Ma still helped around the place while I was at school, and the twins loved hanging around with their Nan, feeding the ducks and chickens, gathering eggs and patting the wet noses of the poddy calves.

This day I dropped in at the big house on the way, just as I usually did. There was always a biscuit or something to eat, and a glass of fresh mills straight from the can. But this day something was different.

I could hear Granddad's voice as I stepped up onto the wide front porch. ‘What are you going to tell the boy?' I heard him say, and I stopped. I might have been respecting what was obviously a private conversation, or I might have been hoping to hear a little more than I was supposed to. Maybe it was a bit of each.

I heard Ma next. She said, ‘I think Billy's old enough to know.'

‘He wouldn't remember him very clearly, would he?' Nan asked.

‘No, probably not, but he's heard me talk about him often enough,' Ma replied. ‘I mean, he's a bright lad, isn't he? He'll catch on that something's up.'

‘I think you should tell him, — Granddad said. ‘Don't break the news to the girls yet, but you should definitely tell the boy. He's suffered along with you. Even if it's tricky, he deserves to know that the wait is over.'

I heard Ma sigh. ‘I wish I knew how he was going to react.'

‘You won't know until you tell him,' Granddad said. ‘Look, Alice, he could be a great comfort to you. And you for him too. This is going to be hard for everyone. Which reminds me — I should get a message to Freddy's folks back home.'

I stepped down from the porch as quietly as I could. It was clear that they were talking about my dad, and that they'd had some news. News they wanted to tell me. But the thing was, I didn't think I wanted that news. If they were going to tell me that my father's body had been discovered in the jungle somewhere, I wasn't sure that I wanted to know. I thought that maybe it would be better to just believe that he was coming back any day now. I didn't understand back then how long a life could be, but I was pretty sure I could go on fooling myself for another fifty or sixty years at least.

I had a place I used to go to when I needed to think. It was a corner of the main shed, under a wooden platform down behind the sacks of horse feed. There was a little hole in the loose tin at the back of the shed I could squeeze through, and no one would ever have known where I was.

Back there in my secret place I had a few comics, plus a small tin box with some lead soldiers and tanks and other toys inside. But that day I didn't feel much like playing Midway or Battle of the Bulge on the rolling landscape of the feed-bags. I didn't feel much like doing anything. I just wanted to hide. Because if they couldn't find me, how could they give me the bad news?

I could hear the sounds of the farm going on outside, and I knew that I was meant to be out there helping Granddad bring in the cows for the evening milking. But I couldn't go. I couldn't do it. I wanted to know what had happened to my dad, except I didn't want to ask. Ma would cry, I'd probably cry as well, and then I'd know for sure that he wasn't coming back. And as things stood, I
didn't
know, just like I'd not known for three years.

I can't say how much time passed while I sat there staring at the wall. I do know that eventually the grown-ups noticed that I wasn't around, because they started looking for me. First Ma, standing on the porch of the big house calling for me. Then Nan, adding several times, ‘He's got to be around here somewhere, love. His bag's right here by the front door.'

Finally I heard Granddad come out and say to them, ‘Don't worry about it. I'll talk to him.'

Not if you can't find me you won't, I thought.

I heard footsteps approaching across the muddy yard. They stopped right outside my little hole in the wall. ‘Billy, come on out now,' Granddad said.

‘I don't want to,' I said, wondering how long he'd known about my secret place.

‘Perhaps not, but you should. It's getting dark, and I need you to give me a hand. There's still all your jobs to do.'

I didn't have an answer to that. I knew I couldn't tell him to do the chores by himself. Not only would I have copped a hiding for talking that way to a grown-up, but Granddad had always been kind to me, and I didn't want to be unkind to him in return.

‘I know there's stuff to do, but I really don't want to come out, Granddad,' I said.

‘No? Well, tell me, Billy, what are you doing in there?'

‘Just sitting,' I replied. ‘Sitting and thinking.'

‘I'd come and sit and think with you if I could fit through that hole,' he said.

‘How did you know where I was?'

I heard him chuckle. ‘Come on, Bill, out you come so we can talk.'

‘What about? What's to talk about?'

‘Your dad,' he said. ‘We need to talk about your dad. They've found him.'

Here it was. The bad news about finding my father's body in a jungle ravine. ‘Where?' I asked in a shaky voice.

‘Burma,' Granddad said.

‘Burma? Still?'

‘He's been on the Railway.'

‘Oh,' I said, my heart sinking. I'd heard a little about the Railway, just murmurings between adults, and my friends and I had managed to piece together the bits of those conversations into some kind of jigsaw picture of what it was. It wasn't a good picture.

‘He's in Sydney now,' Granddad said.

I poked my head out through the hole. Granddad was leaning against the wall of the shed, quietly smoking his pipe. ‘Did you say he's in Sydney now?' I asked.

He looked down at me and winked.

‘Then why aren't they bringing him home like the others?' I asked. ‘He should be home by now. Now he's gone and missed the parade!'

‘Whoa there, Billy,' Granddad said. ‘Don't get ahead of yourself. He's in hospital.'

‘Why? Is he sick?'

‘You could say that. Sick and … and a bit thin, I'd reckon.'

I'd climbed all the way out by now. ‘So what are we waiting for? Shouldn't we be going to see him?' I suggested.

Granddad shook his head. ‘Not yet. Your mas getting the boat across on Friday. You and the twins will stay with us.'

‘Just Ma? That's not fair!'

He shrugged. ‘Fair or not, Billy, that's how it is. He'll be back soon enough.'

Soon enough! Three years without a word, and Granddad was saying ‘soon enough?

‘Listen, mate, I know it's been tough, all right? But you've got to be stronger now than ever before, do you understand?'

No, I didn't. ‘Stronger how?' I asked.

‘For your ma.' He squatted down next to me and tapped the bowl of his pipe against the heel of his boot. ‘She's going to be needing you now. Your dad's going to be pretty crook. He's been through a lot, so he'll need his rest. And he and your ma are going to be trying to get to know each other again.'

‘I understand,' I said.

‘Good lad. Now then, stand tall, here comes your mother.'

Ma was crossing the yard while Nan watched from the porch, her arms folded. Ma looked at Granddad, who gave her a little nod.

‘Billy, sweetheart, did Granddad tell you?' Ma asked me.

‘Yes, Ma,' I replied.

‘And what do you think?' she asked. Her eyes were shiny, and she was blinking a lot.

‘I think … I don't know what to think,' I said.

‘Well, aren't you excited?'

‘Of course I am,' I replied. ‘It's just that Granddad says we don't know what he's going to be lit e. So I'm not sure what to expect.'

Granddad slipped an arm around my shoulder. ‘None of us are, mate,' he said.

‘So what if he comes back with … with an arm missing, or no legs, or … he can't breathe because of the mustard gas or whatever?'

Granddad smiled. ‘They used mustard gas in the last war, Bill, not this one.'

‘But you know what I mean,' I said. ‘What if he's all different or something?'

Ma sniffed. Then she smiled at me. ‘Even if he has no arms and no legs and can't even feed himself, we'll still love him.' She spread her arms wide and I took a step towards her. she hugged me she said, ‘He'll still be my Freddy, and he'll still be your dad. Isn't that right, Billy?'

‘That's right, Ma,' I said as I felt my eyes start to sting.

She left two days later, early, before breakfast, just as the currawongs were waking up. She hugged the twins half to death, and after she'd let them go so they could start wiping the kisses off their faces, she turned to me. She straightened up and patted the front of her skirt down. ‘Billy, you be good now,' she said.

‘Of course I will, Ma,' I replied.

‘And pay attention to your Nan, and to Aunty Margaret as well, who's coming up in a couple of days to help with the twins.'

‘Yes, Ma.'

I'm not sure how long I'll be, but I'll send you a telegram just as soon as I know.'

‘As soon as you get there, love,' Nan said.

‘Yes, all right,' Ma replied. ‘So you look after your sisters, Billy, you hear?'

‘Yes, Ma,' I said, wishing she'd get going. Granddad had the truck running and her bags loaded in the back, so her standing on the front porch looking like she was about to melt into tears was only delaying her leaving. And
that
was only delaying her getting on the boat, which was delaying her getting to Sydney. And the sooner she got to Sydney the sooner she'd be home in Evansbridge with my dad. ‘Granddad's waiting,' I said.