Billy Mack's War (9 page)

Chapter 11 Danny

‘This is our house,' Danny said, as they drove slowly along his little street. ‘This one here.'

‘The one with the porch light on?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll walk you in, make sure you're safe.'

‘It's just there.'

‘I know. But still.' Mr McAuliffe parked the car and turned off the engine. ‘We didn't really get much of a chance to talk about my father after he got home, did we? It would have been nice to have had a bit more time.'

‘Was he really sick?' Danny asked. ‘Because from what you said, it sounds like he was a bit thin and a bit tired, that's all.'

Mr McAuliffe smiled. ‘A lot of people thought that, just like those two in the movie theatre. The men from the camps had been given a few weeks, in some cases months, to regain some weight. They came back looking not exactly healthy, but not too bad either. And people would say that to them. They'd say, “You look fine, considering.” They thought that was what the men wanted to hear.'

‘But didn't they?' Danny asked. ‘Didn't they just want to be normal?'

‘But they
weren't
normal, Daniel.'

‘I know, but they wouldn't want to be singled out either.' Danny thought about all the times
he'd
been singled out because of his dodgy eye. He'd have loved to have been normal then.

‘No, they certainly didn't want a fuss made. When they walked down the street they just wanted folks to shake their hand and say, “It's nice to see that you're back home”, nothing more. It was the subtle things that affected them the most, because no one understood. Only the other people who'd been there with them could understand what it was like in those camps.'

‘What kind of subtle things?' Danny asked.

Mr McAuliffe bit the inside of his lip and watched as a motorbike went by. ‘Porridge,' he said after it had gone. ‘My father couldn't eat porridge.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because of the rice.'

Danny frowned. ‘I'm sorry?'

‘I know, it doesn't make much sense, does it?' Mr McAuliffe glanced at his watch. ‘I'll try to explain.'

Chapter 12 Billy

The first day Dad was back, Nan asked him what he'd like for breakfast, and he said porridge. I expected him to say something like ‘bacon and eggs', but he didn't. ‘They've been feeding us pretty good at the hospital,' he said. ‘But their porridge is truly awful. I'd love some of yours. I've missed your porridge, Melva.'

Looking a little bashful at this unusual compliment, Nan shrugged and agreed. I suppose it came as a bit of a surprise to her that someone would actually miss her porridge.

Nan's was good porridge, mind. She always put a lot of creamy milk in with the oats, which I suppose was what made it so nice, and she cooked it at just the right heat and for the right amount of time or something. It was a mystery, and I don't think its secret will ever be discovered.

While Dad went and freshened up, I sat and watched Nan make breakfast. ‘I forgot how tall he was,' I said after a bit.

‘Who, your dad? Yes, he's very tall. I think he looks even taller because he's thin. Did he remember you?'

I smiled. ‘Yes, he remembered me.'

‘That's terrific.' Nan lifted the porridge off the stove-top. ‘All right, Billy, round up the troops. Ooh,' she said, placing a hand over her mouth and looking embarrassed.
‘That
might be a dirty word around here for a while. I should say, call everyone for breakfast.'

I went out into the middle of the yard and called to Granddad, who emerged from the shed wiping his hands on a rag. ‘Oh, there you are,' I said. ‘Nan said to call you for breakfast. Oh, and Stan came over yesterday.'

‘Oh, yes?' Granddad said suspiciously. ‘What did he want?'

‘He said I should give you a message. He said he's only being a good neighbour, so you should be nicer to him.'

‘Right, because of what I said when he came over here drunk the other day?'

I think so,' I replied.

He gave a snorty little laugh. ‘Good neighbour, is he? Well, thanks, Billy.'

Next I went and found Ma. She was wrestling with a screaming Hattie, who had knots in her hair and didn't want them brushed out.

‘Breakfast is ready, Ma,' I told her.

‘Thanks,' she said. ‘Hey, Billy, how is he?'

‘Dad? He's good, Ma. I thought he'd be … sicker or something.'

‘He
has
been sicker,' Ma said. ‘They let him come home from hospital earlier than normal, so don't exhaust him, all right?'

‘Of course, Ma.'

Lastly I went and found Dad, who was sitting on the edge of his bed, gazing out the window again. ‘Breakfast is ready, Dad,' I said.

He looked at me. ‘You've never called me that before,' he said with a sigh. ‘It was always Daddy before I went away. You
have
grown up, haven't you?'

‘I can do the morning milking on my own now,' I said proudly.

He smiled. ‘That
is
big.' Suddenly he lowered his voice. Hey, Billy-boy, I've got something to show you, but you'd best shut the door first.'

‘What is it?' I asked, closing the door.

‘Bring me that case over there,' he said. ‘The wee brown one. Aye, that's it.'

I lifted the suitcase onto the bed beside him, and he opened the lid. From inside he took a small calico drawstring bag. Pulling the mouth open, he reached in and lifted out a medal, small and dark, with a blood-red ribbon. ‘There you go, Billy-boy, take a look at that, will you?' He held it out towards me.

I took it from him. ‘Is that a Victoria Cross?'

He smiled and nodded.

‘When did you get a VC?' I asked, turning it over in my hand, reading his name engraved on the back.

‘The GG gave it to me in Sydney last week.'

‘What's the GG?' I asked.

‘The Governor-General.' He lowered his voice and said, with a sly grin and a broad accent, ‘Ye didnae think the King'd come all the way out here to give a Scot a wee medal, did ye?'

‘What did you do to get a VC? They hardly give these to anyone! I saw something on a newsreel once —'

‘Before I went away, your ma made me promise not to do anything brave. Or stupid. I suppose I must have done both.' He grinned.

‘Seriously, Dad, what did you do?'

There was a knock at the door. ‘Brekky's getting cold,' Nan called.

‘Just a moment.' Dad took the medal from my hand and dropped it back into its little bag. He squeezed my shoulder. ‘A wee story for another time, aye?'

‘Aye,' I replied reluctantly. ‘Does Ma know?'

‘Aye, she knows. Like I say, though, to her it's just a sign that I did something brave and stupid. So we won't talk about it too much, all right?'

‘All right,' I agreed.

We went out into the kitchen together. Nan was putting the teapot on the table, and she looked up at us as we came in. ‘What's the big secret?' she asked with a smile.

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘Nothing at all.'

‘Aha! Porridge!' said Dad, rubbing his hands together.

Nan looked embarrassed. ‘Fred, really,' she said, smiling. ‘All right, you two ragamuffins, you sit up here near your dad,' she suggested to Meg and Hattie.

Meg shook her head and pouted. Hattie hid behind Nan's leg.

‘Now now, don't be silly, girls — it's your dad, that's all,' she said.

‘Yes, come on,' Ma agreed. ‘He's missed you. Haven't you missed him?'

Granddad came in then, and Meg ran straight to him and raised her arms to be picked up.

Meggie!' Nan said, but Dad just shook his head.

‘It's fine,' he said. ‘It's fine. Let's just eat.'

‘But —' Nan began.

‘It's just a matter of time,' Dad said. ‘Come on, let's eat.'

We sat down around the table, and after we'd all joined hands Granddad offered a blessing. It was a pretty long one, full of thanks for being all seated around one table again, with everyone safe and well. I heard a sniffling sound and peeked. Ma and Nan were both crying. I don't think Nan's idea of a family reunion meal was porridge at breakfast-time, but I didn't care. We were together.

When the blessing was over, everyone looked at Dad. I don't think we meant to — it was just automatic. He looked around at us all, smiled, poured cream over his porridge and picked up his spoon.

‘Wait, love,' Nan said. ‘There's some sugar here.'

We all stared at her. Sugar was precious, too precious to sprinkle on porridge!

‘It's all right. It's a special occasion,' she said.
‘You
go easy,' she warned Granddad, who winked at her.

So all attention returned to Dad, who sprinkled sugar onto his porridge before picking up his spoon again. Everyone watched as he scooped up a little from the edge of the b owl. He looked around at us again, smiled once more, and put it in his mouth.

A look of pleasure swept over his face. But then, suddenly, his expression changed. He'd had another spoonful loaded up and ready to go, but it was returned to the bowl as a look of revulsion replaced the gentle smile. He swallowed hard.

Nan looked horrified. ‘Is everything all right?' she asked. ‘Freddy?'

Tea,' Dad gasped. ‘Tea, speedo!'

‘What?'

‘Tea! Speedo, speedo!'

Quickly Ma poured some tea into his cup, and he washed the porridge down with one hot gulp that made him wince.

‘Are you all right, love?' Ma asked.

‘What is it?' Nan said.

‘It's the porridge,' Dad replied. ‘I'm so sorry, Melva, but it's your porridge.'

‘What's wrong with it? Is it too hot? Too salty?' Nan looked like she was about to pass out from stress or embarrassment, maybe even both.

‘Where did you get your oats?' Dad asked.

‘From Archie Dalhousie, just like I always do. Why, love, what's the matter?'

‘And it was just oats?'

‘Of course, just plain rolled oats.' Nan stood up and went to the pantry cupboard and took out the tin. She prised off the lid and peered in. ‘Yes, it's just oats, love. I thought it must have been weevily when I saw your face just then, but —'

‘Show me the tin,' Dad said, gesturing for her to bring it over.

Nan held the tin so he could see inside. ‘See, Freddy? Just oats.'

Dad was more interested in the label on the outside. ‘Rice,' he said, pointing with a long finger. ‘This tin used to have rice in it.'

‘Yes, love, but not for ages. It's had oats in it for —'

Dad pushed the bowl away. ‘I can taste the rice, Melva. I can taste it in your porridge. Thanks for going to all that trouble, but I can't eat it. I'm sorry.'

‘I like rice,' one of the twins said, and Dad smiled at her.

‘I used to as well, a long time ago,' he replied. ‘I'm sorry.'

That was the first real hint we had that everything wasn't quite what we were expecting. We'd thought that Dad would be really frail, but he wasn't — not as much as we thought he'd be, anyway. He got tired quickly, but he recovered surprisingly fast as well. I think Nan was maybe a little disappointed that he didn't spend more time sitting in the deckchair or swinging in the hammock she'd made. Still, it was good to see him easing back into work, just helping Granddad with the milking or other light jobs around the farm. Granddad liked it too, having another man around. They talked a lot while they were working or sitting on the porch in the evenings. Granddad had always smoked a pipe, but it seemed that my father had taken to smoking cigarettes, much to Ma's muttered disgust. Still, I never heard her tell him how she felt about it, although I'm sure they discussed it. He'd just sit there on the porch with Granddad, rolling his own smokes out of coarse tobacco and Tally-Ho papers as the sun went down.

We'd moved back into our own house a couple of days after Dad came back, and it was nice to be back in my own bed again. But it was strange, too, because for as long as I could remember there'd been only me and Ma and the twins. Now there were heavier footsteps through the house, and a man's voice that wasn't Granddad's. I'd often hear Dad's voice late at night, talking softly to Ma before they went to bed. I'd sometimes hear it in the middle of the night as well, except it wasn't quiet talking but muttering, and sometimes loud shouts. Then I'd hear Mas voice, soft and gentle, telling him it was all right. And although I couldn't make out individual words, his reply always had a tone of apology to it.

One Saturday I heard another man's voice in the house, one that didn't belong to my father or Granddad. I'd gone and got myself sunstruck the previous day, so was in my room with a bad headache, and the voice came from the kitchen. ‘Morning Alice,' it said.

‘Hello, Stan,' Ma replied.

‘Baking some bread there, Alice?'

‘Sure am, Stan. What can I do for you?'

‘How was Sydney? Miss the kids? Miss the farm, did you, Alice?'

‘Yes, it wasn't easy, but I coped. How can I help you, Stan?'

‘Is Freddy about?' Stan asked.

‘He sure is — just out the back, I think.'

I frowned to myself when I heard this, because Dad wasn't ‘just out the back' at all. He and Granddad were doing the fences in one of the big paddocks, and Ma should have known that, since she'd made them sandwiches to take for their lunch.

‘Mind if I say gidday?' Stan asked. ‘Haven't seen him since he come back.'

‘Go and have a look for him if you like,' Ma replied.

I heard the back door close, and I came out into the kitchen. ‘Ma, Dad's not out the back' I said. ‘He s in the —'

‘I know,' she said.

‘So why did you tell Stan —'

I'm busy, Billy. I wonder if you could go and collect the eggs.'

‘I already did, Ma.'

‘Then go and check on the twins.'

‘They're fine, Ma.'

‘How's your head?'

‘It's getting better.'

‘You'd better lie down some more,' she said. ‘You still look a bit off-colour.'

Later, when Dad had come home and was having a cup of tea, I asked if Stan had found him.

‘No. Should he have?' Dad asked. ‘Was he looking for me?'

‘Yes, but Ma told him —'

‘He just wanted to say hello,' Ma replied.

‘Nice of him '

‘Mmm,' was all Ma would say to that.

‘Well, I suppose I'll catch up with him soon enough,' Dad said. ‘I'll catch up with everyone eventually. There are so many people.'