Billy Mack's War (7 page)

I found myself cowering away a little as she approached. ‘He said my dad —' I began timidly.

‘I don't give a monkey's …
bottom
what he said about your father. You had no place knocking him down. At church, of all places. In front of the entire town. What would your mother think?'

‘She'd be proud,' I replied.

‘Don't you talk back to me! She'd be ashamed,' Nan shouted at me.
‘Mortified
is what she'd be. Now get in the house at once.'

‘Nan —'

‘In the house!'

I went inside. There was no reasoning with her in that state.

I sat in my room, my stomach growling. I wondered whether I'd get anything to eat, after what had happened. Then came the knock on the door. ‘Who is it?' I asked with a sniffle.

‘It's me,' said Granddad. ‘Can I come in?'

‘If you want,' I said, and he pushed the door open. He sat down next to me on the bed, where I was staring out the window.

‘She'll be all right,' he said.

‘Really?'

‘Oh yes. I've known her for …' He thought for a bit. ‘I've known her for several hundred years. Most of those years have been great. Some of them have been tough. The last three or so have been the toughest, especially on your Nan.'

‘Why?' I asked. ‘It wasn't
her
husband who'd gone missing.'

‘No, that's true. But it was her daughter's husband, and women … women
feel
that kind of thing for each other. Don't ask me to explain it, Billy — women can't be explained. They're a complete mystery, which is what makes them so interesting to be around.'

I looked at him then, and his eyes were sparkling. ‘So she doesn't hate me?'

‘Who, your Nan? Lord, no! No, she'll love you forever. She just thought you behaved a bit shabbily today, that's all. And it's Evansbridge, too, don't forget. People will be talking about the McAuliffe kid's outburst for a week or two, then they'll find something new to go on about. But like I said, it's women, mate, and their strange and mysterious world. She'll know someone who's best friends with that revolting Morrie kid's mother, and they'll “forget” to invite your Nan to some scone and tea thing, and everyone be in a minor uproar for a couple of weeks, and that'll be that.'

‘I didn't mean to cause any trouble,' I mumbled. ‘It's just that I got so angry. Real angry, you know? Anyway, I thought sticking up for my dad was what I was supposed to do. You know, being a bloke and everything.'

Granddad nodded. ‘Some blokes swing their fists, some blokes walk away. Which ones are the bigger men? I can't tell you.'

‘What would you have done?' I asked.

‘I can tell you what I
hope
I might have done. I
hope
I'd have been able to walk away. But who knows if I would have, if that had been me instead of you.'

I frowned. This was too confusing, especially on an empty stomach. ‘So did I do the right thing or not?'

‘Given the choice, maybe not. But I'm Tom Carlyle, not Billy McAuliffe, so I can only decide for Tom.' Granddad squeezed my knee. ‘Just make it right on Monday.'

I hung my head. ‘Barry's not going to want to talk to me, Granddad.'

‘You'll just have to make sure he does. Make it right, son, make it right. Now, lunch is about to go on the table.'

‘I don't think —'

‘You have to face her some time, Billy. It might as well be now.'

I took a deep breath and stood up. Then I followed my grandfather into the kitchen, where Nan was taking a bubbling Yorkshire pudding out of the oven.

‘Nan, I'm sorry,' I said, feeling rather obvious and alone in the middle of the room.

Her lips were tight, and she didn't look at me as she said, ‘Thank you, William. Now kindly wash your hands and take your seat with your sisters at the big table — lunch is ready.'

A telegram came the following day, shortly after my grandmother had decided to talk to me again. This was shortly after I'd returned home from school, which was shortly after I'd plucked up the courage to apologise to Barry Morrie.

Strangely, the most difficult hurdle had been Doug. day long I'd tried to talk to him normally, like nothing had really happened the day before, but he was a bit quiet, answering in grunts and single words. Normally he was very talkative, so the silence had me beginning to suspect that he really did believe what Barry had said about my dad.

The apology wasn't as bad as I'd expected. Barry and I had managed to avoid each other pretty much all day, until I went up the front of the classroom to sharpen my pencil in Mrs Grayson's fancy new rotary sharpener, which was still something of a novelty. Barry was already there, sharpening his own pencil down to a stub, so I stood and waited. His lip was swollen and several strange colours. When he'd finished, he brushed past me with his eyes lowered. I knew then that apologising probably wouldn't be too difficult.

I was heading out the front gate at the end of the day when I saw him unchaining his new bike from the front fence of the school. I took a deep breath and went over. ‘Look, Barry, I'm sorry about yesterday,' I said, just like that. There, I thought, I've said it. We'll never be best friends now, but we were never going to be anyway.

‘Yeah, that's okay,' he replied. ‘It was a good punch. Put me tooth through me lip, you know.'

‘Did I? Sorry about that.'

‘Sorry about what I said too,' he answered, and he stuck his hand out, just like his dad would have taught him to do.

Just then, Doug came over. ‘What was that about?' he asked when Barry had waved and ridden off.

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘Just sorting out what happened yesterday.'

‘Sorting it out? How could you do that?'

‘I was saying sorry, if it's any of your business,' I said, maybe a little more impatiently than was necessary.

‘Awright, keep your hair on, I was only asking,' Doug replied. ‘So, any word from your old man?'

‘No, not yet. Hey, Doug, do you think that hat Barry said is true? Really, I mean. Be honest — I won't mind.'

His mouth twitched. ‘Look, mate, I'm just a kid, awright —'

‘Yeah, and so am I,' I said. ‘But it's my dad, you see. Don't you see? I can't let people just say that he was sitting around while everyone else did the fighting. You wouldn't want people saying that about your brothers, would you?'

‘No, but they wouldn't, because they weren't captured. Don't get angry,' he added quickly, instinctively putting his hand to his mouth. ‘But they weren't, and your dad was. That's no one's fault though, Billy.'

‘But if Bobby or James had been fighting where my dad was they
would
have been captured, don't you see? And then
they'd
have been prisoners. And besides, what makes you so sure that it was so nice and relaxed in those camps? I've heard it was pretty awful. There was this one. thing I saw on the newsreels —'

Doug shrugged then, and I guess that was the only thing he could do. ‘I don't know, mate,' he said. ‘I guess you'll be able to ask him as soon as he gets home.'

‘Yeah, whenever
that
is.'

When I got home to the big house, I came into the kitchen a little cautiously. Nan had forgotten to put a piece of cake in my lunch bag, and I wondered if she was still angry. She and Aunty Margaret were sitting at the table shelling peas. ‘Good afternoon, Billy,' she said. Her voice sounded almost normal.

‘Hi, Nan. Hi, Aunty Margaret.'

‘There's something on the table for you to read,' Nan said.

It was a telegram, which said:

HAVE SEEN FRED STOP VERY THIN IN GOOD SPIRITS STOP DOCTORS THINK HOME IN SIX WEEKS STOP STAYING WITH MILDRED STOP LOVE TO BILLY AND TWINS ALICE

‘That's good, isn't it, Nan?' I said. ‘Six weeks! That's not very long.'

‘Yes, love, that's very good. That should fly by.'

‘It'll seem like a couple of days, that's all,' Aunty Margaret said.

I sat down at the opposite side of the table, and Nan slid the bowl of peas into the middle so I could help with the shelling. ‘I said sorry to Barry Morrie today,' I told her.

‘Good boy,' she replied. ‘Sort things out just as soon as you can, that's what I always reckon.'

‘I know. And I'm sorry I embarrassed you yesterday.'

She smiled. ‘You were only sticking up for your dad. But the next time you decide to punch someone's lights out, make it the son of someone less influential than the bank manager.' Then she winked at me. ‘The mayor's got a son, I believe.'

I knew then that it was over with.

We got one letter a week from Ma. There's not much you can say in a couple of pages, but she did manage to let us know that Dad's strength was gradually returning, he was managing to eat proper meals without getting ill, and he was keen to see his kids. I wondered what it would be like for him to see the twins, since they'd been just babies when he went away.

I tried to remember him. I'd only been eight years old when he left, so I recalled bits and pieces, helped by the few photographs we had of him. There were two pictures from Ma and Dad's wedding day, one more of them taken with me as a tiny baby, and one of me sitting on his knee. In the one of me on his knee, I was looking off into the distance with a perplexed look on my face, while Dad looked straight ahead, the faintest smile playing on his mouth. The only other pictures we had of Dad were in his uniform, one by himself standing proudly in his kilt with his rifle at his side, and the other with his company. The young men were grinning and happy, some squatting, some standing, all of them full of pride and camaraderie and youthful excitement. There was my father, Captain Fred McAuliffe, right at the end. They were his lads, that much was clear.

I would take that photograph down from above the fireplace and look at it, touch it. For as long as I could remember, back when we all thought that my father was dead, I would peer into those young faces and think to myself, those boys don't know that in a few weeks they'll be dead. It was a creepy thought, looking at their smiles and their excitement. My father's face, proud, ready, strong, prepared. And in a month or less, dead.

Now that I knew better, I looked at that picture and thought, in a few weeks some of you will be dead, but
you,
Dad,
you'll
be captured.
You'll
be taken to a camp somewhere.
You'll
come home to see me, your son. And when I thought that, I got a weird shiver of excitement, and had to put the photograph back on the mantel. I suppose I didn't want to think too hard about it. I guess I'd grown used to the idea of my father being gone forever, and I was scared that if I started getting used to him being alive, I might end up disappointed all over again.

Chapter 8 Danny

‘I know exactly what you mean,' Danny said. ‘I've got this photo of my mum next to my bed, and sometimes I look at it and think how when the photo was taken she didn't know what was going to happen to her.'

‘Is that so?' Mr McAuliffe said.

Danny nodded. ‘It's a picture of her and me, and I'm sitting on her knee, and she's looking down. She's smiling at me.'

‘That sounds very nice.'

‘Yeah, it is. It was taken about half a year before she died, and it's kind of weird, looking at it and knowing that she already had the cancer, but didn't have any idea that it was there.'

‘I'm sorry to hear about your mum,' Mr McAuliffe said. ‘Do you miss her?'

‘Yeah, I think so. I don't remember her very well, you see.'

‘You were young?'

Danny nodded again.

‘You know what I'm talking about, then,' Mr McAuliffe said.

‘Yes sir, I sure do.'

The waitress had come over again, and she placed the bill on the table. ‘I'm sorry, but we're about to close up,' she said to Mr McAuliffe.

‘Is that so? Very well.' He looked at Danny and shrugged. ‘It looks like we're going to have to cut this short.'

‘I'm sorry,' the girl said.

‘No, no, that's quite all right,' Mr McAuliffe said as he stood up and took out his wallet.

It's not all right at all, Danny thought crossly. He could tell that the story was reaching a really interesting point.

He waited out on the footpath while Mr McAuliffe paid the bill. It was beginning to get dark, and except for the takeaway and the newsagent's, all the shops were closed up.

‘I should get you home,' Mr McAuliffe said, as he stepped out of the café and the waitress locked the door behind him. ‘Your father will be wondering where you are.'

Danny sat quietly in the front seat of Mr McAuliffe's Commodore. Once they were driving, he said, ‘How long was it until your dad
did
come home? Was it six weeks like they said, or was it longer?'

‘I think it was about that, give or take. It was a long time ago, Daniel.' He chuckled. ‘But it's funny how, even sixty years later, certain things remain very clearly in your memory.'

Chapter 9 Billy

Aunty Margaret could only stay for a week or two. She had family back in Hobart to look after, so one morning Granddad loaded her bags into the back of the truck and drove her to Launceston to catch the train home. Before she went she gave me a long hug. She looked a lot like as lightly older version of my mother, and I found myself closing my eyes and pretending for a second that it was Ma hugging me. I hadn't thought I was missing Ma too badly up until that moment. Then I realised how much I really was.

Not much more was said at school about my dad being found alive and not so well. Mrs Grayson had mentioned it to the class very early on, and every couple of days she would ask me if there was any more word about when he was going to be coming back to Evansbridge.

‘No, ma'am,' I'd mumble. ‘We're just taking it one day at a time.' I think I said that because it was what I'd overheard Nan telling people in the street whenever they asked her the same question.

‘Well, you will let us know, won't you?' Mrs Grayson would say. She always seemed so sad when she said it, though, and I didn't know why.

No one else seemed too fussed. I guess that after five years of war, with soldiers going away, coming back, not coming back, people were used to living with little or no news. someone's father recuperating in a Sydney hospital wasn't that big a deal.

I found it odd, but it was actually Barry Morrie who began to show the most interest. He was always asking me how Dad was going, and wanting to know what Ma's latest letter had said. ‘Well, that sounds good, eh?' he'd say, or, ‘It must be real hard for him and your ma, getting to know each other again and that,' and other interested things. He probably sounded exactly like his mum, but I didn't mind. I started to think after a while that punching him in the mouth was the best thing I could have done. Woke him up to himself or something, maybe.

Doug was a different story. He'd changed, ever since that day at the church. I mean, even though he was supposed to be my best mate, he avoided discussing anything to do with my father. He even stopped talking to me about his brothers, and eventually he stopped talking to me altogether.

One lunchtime, determined to take Nan's advice and ‘sort things out', I approached him. He was playing marbles with Ernie Stoppard and some other kid. Hey, Doug,' I said.

‘Billy,' he replied, barely looking up.

‘Can I play?' I asked.

‘Do you have any marbles?'

I shook my head. ‘I left them at home. I thought you could lend me a couple, just to get me started.'

Doug glanced at Ernie. ‘See, I would, but …'

‘But what?' I asked. ‘It's okay, you can say no.'

‘Can I? Then no.'

I blinked and stared. ‘What?' I'd heard, but I hadn't believed.

‘We're kind of already playing a game here, so …'

‘It's not draughts,' I replied. ‘More than two can play. You've got three as it is.'

He frowned up at me. ‘Are you deaf? I said no. If you had marbles to bring we might think about it, but —'

‘What's your problem, Suffolk?' asked Barry, who'd just arrived on the scene.

‘It's no problem,' I said. I was twelve, so I was used to people deciding that they wanted a new best friend, even if the reason was hard to understand. I was learning not to get too worked up about it.

‘Do you want to use a couple of my marbles?' Barry asked, fishing a handful out of his pocket and holding them out towards me.

‘It's okay,' I said. I could tell that this was about more than a game of marbles in the dirt.

‘He can only use his own marbles anyway. It's kind of a rule,' Ernie said.

‘Since when?' Barry asked.

‘Since whenever we decided it was a rule,' Doug replied.

‘Come on, Billy,' Barry said, grabbing my arm to lead me away. ‘They can do what they like.'

‘And we will,' Doug said.

‘Good, so do it.'

‘We will.'

‘Good.'

‘Good.
'

‘Great.'

‘No problem. See ya.'

‘Yeah, see ya.'

‘Not if I see you first.'

Barry and I crossed the schoolyard and sat down under one of the trees by the seesaws. ‘Can I say something?' he asked me.

‘Yeah, what?' I said shortly.

‘It's Mrs Grayson, you know. It's her fault.'

‘What? That's stupid! How can it be her fault?'

‘Simple. Doug's got his nose out of joint because Mrs Grayson's always asking about your dad.'

‘But that's just dumb,' I said. ‘She's interested, that's all. Anyway, she was always asking Doug about his brothers when they were in New Guinea.'

‘I know, but … I can't really explain. But I reckon that's what it is, serious. He's jealous.'

‘Oh,' I said.

‘I don't know what you can do about it, though,' Barry said.

But
I
knew. That afternoon, straight after school, I waited back to talk to Mrs Grayson. She was packing away books at the back of the classroom. ‘Mrs Grayson,' I said. ‘Can I talk to you?'

‘Of course, Billy.' She looked up and gave me
that
smile, the one with the tiny dimples.

‘It's about my dad.'

Mrs Grayson put the pile of books down on one of the desks and turned to face me. ‘Has something happened?' she asked. ‘Have you had more news?'

‘No, nothing like that. It's more about … about the way you're always asking me about him.'

‘Is that a problem? I don't want to upset you, if asking about your father is going to do that.'

This was hard, telling a teacher — especially one like Mrs Grayson — how to be with the kids in their class, and I was already beginning to regret it. ‘It's not really
that
kind of problem. I guess I'd just like it if you didn't ask me about my dad all the time. I can't really say why … '

‘Billy, I'm only showing an interest. Besides, I know how hard it is waiting for news from abroad, especially when someone's MIA.'

She knew how hard it was? How could she know that? Was she me? She didn't know what it was like being me. But I didn't say that. I just looked at the floor and said, ‘I know you're just being nice, Mrs Grayson —'

She placed her hand under my chin and lifted my face until I was looking into her eyes. ‘Billy, I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. I won't ask you about your father any more.'

‘It's okay, really,' I said, feeling bad all of a sudden. ‘Just don't ask me in front of the others … if that's okay.'

Mrs Grayson smiled. ‘I think I understand, Billy. And it's perfectly fine.'

‘Thank you,' I breathed. ‘I've got to go.'

As I left the classroom I glanced back. She hadn't picked up the books from the desk. She was just standing, staring out the window.

One day, about five or six weeks after Ma had left, I was helping Granddad pull the tractor engine apart in the farm shed when Stan Whittaker turned up in the doorway. ‘Hey, boss,' he said, as he slouched untidily against the doorpost. ‘Billy,' he said to me.

Granddad glanced up from the engine. ‘Stan,' he said, without emotion.

‘How's it?' Stan asked. He looked like he was having real trouble focusing his eyes, and he smelt very strange.

‘It's all right, Stan,' Granddad replied. ‘What's up?'

‘Had any more news there, boss?'

Granddad didn't look up. ‘Not since the letter we got yesterday, Stan, and you asked me then. Is there anything else?'

‘No, that's all.' Stan pushed himself upright and swayed a bit as he stood there. He tucked his chin into his chest and seemed to think for a moment before saying, ‘Righto, then, I'll just pay me respects to the lady of the house —'

Granddad laid down his spanner and straightened up. ‘No, you won't, Stan. Not today.'

Stan blinked at Granddad a few times. ‘Now steady on there, boss, I just want to —'

‘I said no,' Granddad said. ‘Melva doesn't need to see you in that state. Now, was there anything else?'

‘Just being neighbourly there, boss,' Stan said, looking hurt. ‘I think I should say gidday to Melva, if it's all the same.'

‘You're a stubborn one, aren't you, Stan?' Granddad replied. ‘Go home, mate, and sort yourself out. There's nothing here for you, all right?'

Stan held his hands up as he waited for his mouth to start working. ‘Righto, righto, I get it, boss. Well, if I'm not welcome …'

As he wandered out into the sunlight of the yard, I heard Granddad mutter, ‘You got that right, you souse.'

‘What's that all about?' I asked Granddad.

He picked up his spanner and went back to work. ‘He's drunk, that's all,' he said.

A telegram came a few days later, on the Friday. I was at home when it arrived, and we read it together, me, Granddad and Nan:

FREDDY RIGHT FOR HOME STOP WILL REACH

DEVONPORT NEXT THURSDAY LOVE ALICE

Nan looked at me and beamed. Her eyes were filling with tears. Then she threw her arms around me and squeezed. ‘Next Thursday, Billy,' she said into the top of my head. I could feel her breath warm in my hair. ‘That's less than a week away.'

‘Can I come with you to the boat?' I asked Granddad once I'd managed to free myself from Nan's hug and she'd moved on to the twins. ‘I can help with the cases and trunks and stuff.'

He shook his head. ‘No, mate, there's not enough room in the truck. Besides, I need you to look after the place for me. No, you'll see your old man next Friday, just as soon as I get him back here.'

That Saturday Granddad tools me to the pictures in town to celebrate. It was only a little picture theatre, but it was big enough for Evansbridge. As usual, they showed the newsreels before the main show started. For the last five years we 'd been watching the newsreels to find out how the war was going, how our boys were getting on, that kind of thing. Over the last couple of months it had been all good news — victory parades in America and England and France, Japanese and German soldiers surrendering, all great stuff. For the first time in my life I felt good watching the news at the pictures.

This day the newsreel featured prisoners-of-war. LOST AND FOUND, said the title. Then came a grainy image of the interior of a hospital, beds in rows. In those beds were thin men, a few wearing slouch hats. Some of the men were propping themselves up on their elbows, others rested their heads on crisp white pillows. Most were smiling. ‘These brave young chaps have been reluctant guests of the Imperial Japanese Army,' the narrator's voice said. ‘What an ordeal they've faced, but now at long last they can look forward to coming home to their loved ones. With the best care money can buy and the help of these lovely ladies' — here a couple of pretty nurses in white uniforms grinned bashfully at the camera — ‘these fellows will soon be up and about and ready to head on home. Well done, chaps! It'll be great to have you back!'

A man sitting behind us snorted. ‘Don't look all that crook to me,' he said to his friend. ‘I thought they were supposed to be starving.'

His friend agreed. ‘They looked a bit thin, but other than that …'

Granddad looked down at me. I guess he must have sensed my fists clenching, because he said in a low voice, ‘Steady, Billy. They don't understand.'

‘Then we should
make
them understand,' I said through tight lips.

‘You can't, mate,' Granddad said. ‘Just leave it.'

The men weren't quite finished. ‘Give them a couple of weeks off and they'll be right.'

‘Yeah, well, like I said, they don't look too crook. The paper said they were all skin and bone, but look at them! I mean, they could use a couple more pounds, sure, but at the end of the day —'

‘All right, that's it,' Granddad muttered, rising in his seat and turning to face the men. The black and white light of the projector flickered on his face, and he ignored the murmured complaints from the audience. ‘Oh, I should have known. Morning, Darcy,' he said. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the screen. ‘Did you think maybe they've had a few weeks to feed up? A few decent meals might make a difference when you've had nothing but rice and cholera for years, what do you reckon?'

‘Steady on, Tom, we've all done it tough,' someone called out.

‘Done it tough? You wouldn't know tough if it smacked you in the rear end, John Lowry,' Granddad retorted. ‘Just spare a thought for those blokes, eh? That's all. That's all.'

‘We are, mate,' yet another person said, his voice rising above the murmur in the theatre. ‘We understand.'

Granddad shook his head. ‘Is that right? Well, I hope the rest of you understand a bit better than these two lugs when our Fred gets home. He'll be here in a few days, and I'd better not hear any talk about him and his mates bludging off while everyone else did the fighting.'

The noise had died away as Granddad spoke. He was a popular and powerful man in Evansbridge, and it took someone very brave or very stupid to stand up to Tom Carlyle.

‘Sorry, Tom, mate, we meant nothing by it,' Darcy said.

‘Yeah, Tom, nothing at all,' his friend added.

‘Come on, Billy, let's go,' Granddad said to me, reaching his hand towards me. ‘I've lost interest.'

We stepped out into the sunshine, and Granddad squinted at the bank of clouds off to the west. ‘Sorry about that, mate,' he said, taking out his pipe. ‘I don't want you to have to hear that kind of talk.'

‘It's all right,' I said. ‘I know that's what they're saying anyway.'

‘Of course you do, but it's still not on. Those boys on that newsreel have been having three meals a day for a couple of weeks now. They probably weigh a stone or two more than they did when the Japs scampered off.'