Black Diamonds (17 page)

 

FRANCINE

I'll never forgive you
… my mad and dangerous and unforgivable words seep out from where the mould splotch used to be, before he fixed it. Shame bites deeper and louder than the screeching headache I've provoked in myself by weeping till dark, as I make my decision now to embark upon some sort of radical course of action to make up for it. Make up for our famous last words too, or at least mine: I think the last full sentences I uttered to him were when I asked if he'd heard that the editor of
Direct Action
had been arrested for anti-war propaganda.
To arms! Capitalists, parsons, politicians, land lords, newspaper editors and other stay-at-home patriots. Your country needs you in the trenches! Workers, follow your Masters!
said the poster that an army of Industrial Workers of the World Wobblies had plastered all over Sydney. I said: ‘Didn't know being cheeky with the truth was a crime.' As soon as I'd said it, I knew it was the wrong thing to say; and a selfish thing to say. I'd just wanted one last laugh, and it wasn't funny; I could see that in his eyes, though he gave me his raspy chuckle anyway: ‘Probably about time someone shut him up, the IWW only give the working class a bad name. But something's got to give, hasn't it. The revolution'll just have to sit it out till it's ended.' Mmn.

And it's him who's giving. So many hims. And quite a few hers, too, going abroad as nurses and drivers and doing extraordinary technical sorts of things with telegraphy and such. While I'm sitting on my bed …

Grand Plan for Radical Change doesn't go much further than resolve to stop blubbering, resume eating, and start springbeating the carpets; then it takes off very ambitiously with a decision to go to Sydney University to study law, prompted by the first thing Drummond does as soon as he's aware Daniel is out of the country.

He drives round in his big black Buick to see me; he's done his own contacting of Messrs Stanley and Bragg, probably a year ago, and now he's saying on my front doorstep: ‘Francine, surely you don't need the worry and responsibility of the mine now?' Meaning so I have more time for pining and prayer? ‘There is a loophole I've found that will get you out of it if you want to. I'm prepared to buy you out under very generous terms.'

Meaning he wants to get rid of me because I have just this minute refused to agree to relax the shift regulations to accommodate the demands brought about by the war and his desire to make even more from it. He's said that he'll pay the men well, and that the new manager, a Mr Robbenham, has a good deal of experience in implementing such things smoothly and amicably, but I've said no: Robbenham sounds very much like smoothly and amicably robbin' 'em to me, and it's dangerous enough as it is down the hideous hole without falling asleep on the job. I know that the ten-hour days he wants will translate into fourteen, as eight translates as twelve, and that's just not acceptable. I'm sure that Daniel would agree, and that Evan Lewis would too, at least I think I'm sure: it makes sense that most men would jump at the extra money, but it can't be safe, and I believe it's unfair. It's probably against union agreements and whatnot too. I'm too angry to bother with consultation; too angry that the man in front of me has just tried to bully me, in the nicest possible way. Well, this relaxation of regulation is not going to happen while I have a say, and thankfully I do on this matter. As an equal partner such a change would require my signature on a new agreement, via my elderly legal angels in Macquarie Street, and Drummond's not going to get it.

I say: ‘Mr Drummond, I'm very happy with the way things are, but thank you for your consideration. Must rush, I have a very busy day today.' And close the door on his open mouth. Listen to his engine splutter away, hope he gets a wheel stuck in the ruts just to rub it in.

But I don't have a busy day, and I spend part of it pacing round the house muttering to myself, wishing I knew more about industrial laws so that I could have told him his plan was illegal instead of sounding like a petulant little girl. I don't know if it is illegal or not, but it probably should be. And to come here, after all this time, when I am alone — he is despicable. But Father was right: Drummond is blinkered. He thinks it's canny business practice. Everybody wins.

Grand Plan stalls as I exhaust myself with it and reality returns. I can find out more about the law easily enough, but I'm not about to go off to Sydney to study it. A few women have, but they're not permitted to practise. What's the point of gaining knowledge you don't have the power to use? Besides, to use a Danielism, I don't have the bottle to do any such thing. I couldn't bear to leave Josie's Place and Calypso anyway, even if I passed the entrance requirements, even if they overlooked the fact that I am
married
and therefore unsuitable for anything that might require use of a brain. Fact is, I am pining and praying. And becoming frustrated with myself because of it. Back to beating the devil out of the hall carpet.

What are the alternatives? I can't join a gaggle of women knitting socks and pining and praying together. Bolstering each other with talk of proud sacrifice. I don't think I'd trust myself to keep my composure; I'll do my bit for the Sock Fund on my own, where I can bolster myself with the private confabulation that I can knit lucky socks. And I'm not about to head off overseas to be a nurse or other extraordinary sort of thing. I'm not adventurous enough, don't have the stomach let alone the bottle, and they probably don't want married women either. What about joining the Wobblies, or the Socialist Party, or even the Feminists — that Women's Peace Army in Melbourne that's been in the papers lately for their more genteel call to destroy militarism with their
War Against War?
Same problem: too little bottle. And I think you'd have to be a devout spinster in the mould of their leader, Formidable Miss Vida Goldstein, to join that club anyway. Not to mention the added conundrum my marriage presents there: husband in voluntary service overseas: how would that look? Not very supportive of My Boy.

So, come Sunday I go to Mass, for the first time in more than a year. I am that desperate for a higher thought. I won't take communion of course, I'm too brimming with sin; I'm just here looking for signs, smelling the damp bricks. But Father Hurley's sermon hurtles through me past the Latin: he's so fired-up he's almost violent as he speaks of false sacrifice and the tyranny of men who will play God. Sounds like he's been studying that mad Melbourne bishop, Doctor Mannix, who's pitted himself against the government, the
colonial trade war
and, in particular, British imperialism — papers can't get enough of the scandal. How dare he make such a terrible traitorous hullabaloo. Scandal indeed: this humble parish priest reads the roll of those recently sacrificed from the region and reminds us that the same self-appointed British gods are mercilessly oppressing the Irish as they are failing to liberate Europe from a foe which they, by their imperial conceitedness and greed, created, sending our boys to their senseless deaths, consuming youth and justice till there will be none left to defend.

Too damn right! I want to bang my fist down on the back of the pew in front of me, but I'm too busy quaking all over, oblivious to the Eucharist. This wasn't a good idea.

I can't move when everybody wanders out, back to the real world; can't even look over my shoulder to see if Drummond was here to ignore the condemnation. I just kneel and cry, and Father Hurley, gentle and wearied again, sits down next to me and rubs my back, willing peace into me.

‘Shhhh. We'll have to find something to keep you from your idleness now, won't we, Francine?'

Yes please. When I've finished being pathetic.

After a while he says: ‘Can you drive a motor car?'

‘No.' Sniff sniff; I look up at him as if he's just asked if I can fly. ‘Why?'

‘There are a few lads come back from Turkey, in a bad way, and it's difficult for them to get about. I'm looking for someone to help them with transport, a particular sort of person.'

‘Me?'

‘I thought it might suit you, but you don't drive, of course you don't, so we'll think of something else.'

Divine intervention shakes the roof and I say: ‘No, I'll do it. I'll buy a vehicle and learn to drive it.' And I can buy a vehicle too, it's not like I don't have the money, and it seems a good way to start tearing down this wall of fear in front of me. I'm terrified of motoring and I'm terrified at the prospect of meeting the casualties of war. Perfect.

I don't tell Daniel any of this when I finally write to him, and I have been putting off writing because I just didn't know what to say. Beyond I love you, please come home; not very chippering stuff and too much of a temptation for fate. When I put pen to paper now, I don't tell him about the mine or Drummond, or the great thumping green all-American-made Cadillac I've acquired, which is twice the size of Father's little old Austin and has an electric self-starting thingumy for the engine suitable for ‘the lady-driver', all arranged for me by my elderly angels in Babel — quick sale and a bargain: a fair few orders not picked up, due to young male drivers heading overseas — or the fact that my terror actually makes me a fair chop at driving, for this job. Young Mr Christopher Templeton and his mother like me driving slowly and carefully, since Chris's spine is damaged somehow from a bullet so that he's in constant awful pain and he can barely walk. They also like that my reined-in dread means I don't pry or chatter on our first trip out, to the hospital for a check-over, but we get to know each other well enough for me to work out that he's the elder brother of Baby Face from the train. Daniel certainly doesn't need to know that. And neither do I tell him I've had to cut my hair short since no matter how I pinned or plaited it, it kept blowing around in my face too much when I was learning to drive, under the instruction of Doctor Nichols who kindly offered to lose a few hairs of his own till I got the hang of it, and that I now look like a five-year-old playing dress-ups, or Joan of Lithgow, as Father Hurley has taken to calling me. Daniel doesn't need to know that I really do need to see an optician, and that I've made an appointment for tomorrow: I have no trouble whatsoever seeing close up, but my distance vision is appalling I have discovered, now that I have the responsibility of operating heavy machinery carrying delicate cargo. No, I have different news for Daniel. Very, very different news.

 

DANIEL

‘Oi,' says Anderson, the pleasant plumber and faithful snorer. ‘Noisy's happy today — look, he's smiling.'

I am too, now I've got over the shock, a bit.

My darling husband Daniel
, she begins and she's having fun with me,
I do hope that you are able to down tools for a moment and find yourself a comfortable place to sit or fall over. Apologies if that's bad taste in present circumstances, but it is good advice. It appears you have shot straight at least once in your life — for I am with child. How about that!!!!!!!! Our timing, as ever, is impeccable. Can't say any more than that for now — if I did I'd have to do nothing but touch wood for the duration, you know what I mean — still a superstitious Catholic despite all your good influence. But I can say that I am thrilled to the marrow, obviously, and fairly floating on love for you. Have been since forever and I always will
.

Your obedient and dutiful and fruitful wife, France.

I even laugh; not very hard to, she's a lark.

‘Good news?' says Anderson.

‘My wife. She's going to have a baby.' Yes she is. She's going to have a baby. Our baby. That's what she said. You beaut.

‘Congrats, mate. First one?' He's genuinely excited for me; he's got two little sons of his own.

‘Yep.'

‘Well, come on, let's go and get you good and plastered, then, ay,' says this bloke Stratho who's one of the new in with us after the reshuffle and another plumber. He's not new, though: he's been here from the start, joined up in September 1914, and has taken on cracking me as his personal responsibility. Likes to call me the DT, the Deepest Thinker, in reference to the not very friendly term applied to anyone who joined up after April 1915.

‘Pity I don't drink,' I tell him for the third time since I've met him. And the reason I don't is plain: it tastes disgusting and makes me chuck. Not that I go to the trouble of telling Stratho that — let him wonder if I'm a wowser or not; got to have some amusement round here.

‘Oh, come off it — I don't drink very often either, but this is an occasion,' says Anderson.

‘I don't fucking drink — you two go and have one for me.'

‘You're an odd cunt, Ackerman,' says Stratho, getting up.

‘Yep,' I tell him: ‘you've picked me in one. Must be all those deep thoughts of mine.'

Only one thought going on right now: Francine's going to have a baby, and I'm going to sit here quietly and plough through my bread and oranges loving every mouthful. Can't take the smile off my face.

Smile's still there on the ship to Marseilles, every time I think about her. The Mediterranean is kinder to me, but maybe I've just relaxed a bit. It's all going to be on from here for old and new hands, but it's a relief to get going somewhere. Not me gutchucking this time; plenty of it going on, though: the amount of grog downed on this ship would make Fritz think we're giving him an advantage; but he'd be wrong I think. A large majority of the Gallipoli blokes are raring and roaring, not keen to get back in but keen to even the score, and it's contagious. I don't rattle easily, but there's barely contained savagery in them that's something to give a wide berth to; we pass a destroyer on the lookout for submarines and I think: just let this lot in the water. They've all been warned, though: soon as we're off this ship there'll be order. Apparently the top brass is nervous that lack of discipline will become a problem; can't see it myself: I wouldn't take any of them on.

And when they're not busy drinking they're busy trying to learn a bit of French; don't know which is more hilarious or frightening. Not that I'd do better, but I do have a clue as to what it's supposed to sound like. Which makes me think I should probably write to Mum at some stage, for what it'd be worth. But decide against it again; she won't want to know and France can tell her I'm still around. And that I'm a bit more than an idiot.
Totaler Idiot.

When we dock I scribble a few lines for France, my France, about having taken the long way round the block to reach her this time; it's pissing down and freezing and I breathe in the cold wet air like I've been holding my breath all these months. There's young women everywhere in the Marseilles welcoming committee and I see why the blokes were so eager to learn the language. Things must be grim here, though: they're all so bloody happy to see us. But there's no time for anyone to exploit the goodwill among the
mademoiselles
, because we're straight on the train again heading north.

I get lost in the green outside the windows, trying to imagine I'm home for a bit, but the colours are sharper, darker here, although the sky's dull, washed out whether there's clouds or not. The train steams on forever, and it'd be good if it would really, but eventually we pile out at a village with the name of Ebblinghem, as if the person who named it knew that one day we'd be passing through and wanted to be sure we'd feel at home with an easy pronunciation. And we're dossing in an empty brewery of all places. Someone's got a sense of humour.

I'm outside having a piss in the dark when Duncan stalks up behind me for another private moment. He's left me alone for weeks now but I knew he'd be back sometime.

He says: ‘Ackerman, we've almost got to where we're going, and things might start to fray from here. Time to forget your buttons and start looking at the men.'

What the fuck does that mean? I don't know why I choose this moment, maybe I'm jumpy and tired, maybe it's because I'm sure he's queer, but at this point I completely forget myself with him and I crack silly as.

When I've worn myself out and put myself away he says: ‘Now that you've got that out of your system, let me tell you how I'd like to exploit you from now on.' Chuckle: ‘And it's not for your soldiering or your shovelling technique. I want you to keep an eye on the men generally and let me know who you think's not bearing up.'

‘How would I know that?' There are more experienced men here than me, and I'm bottom rank.

‘Because you're a
miner, really
, aren't you.' Smart-arse, slinging my words back at me. ‘Somewhat conditioned to difficult circumstances and the suppression of fear. Panic: I think you'll be able to spot it quickly in others, don't you? You are also perversely honest and aloof and won't give a second thought to telling me who needs a rest, or taking a bit of charge if necessary.'

‘What makes you think I won't panic — I've never done this before.'

‘I don't believe you will.'

I have to ask him: ‘You've got so much faith in my abilities, what was all the round the clock “sir” bullshit back home about then? Especially since I
don't know my arse from my elbow.
'

Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle, and all he says is: ‘You have to understand the way authority works in order to circumvent it; at least appear to play along. It's called
diplomatic
insubordination. Grossly undervalued skill. Should be part of military training, for Australians. Tommy simply copes better when he hears “yes sir”. Besides, I enjoyed seeing how far I could stretch your selfcontrol. Outstanding nerve, you have.'

Is that right? Good thing you're so sure. Prick.

He adds: ‘And I've seen the way you look at that photograph. You won't give in in a hurry.'

That's probably true, but it's a bit unsettling that he's been looking close enough to have an opinion on that too. Maybe he's not queer. I ask him: ‘Are you married?'

‘Divorced.' And he makes it clear that that's the end of that enquiry; not surprised: I've never met anyone who's divorced.

But I have to ask him while we're being chatty: ‘Why are you here?'

‘Same reason you are.' And that's the end of that enquiry too.

I want to ask him why field engineering is the worst job in the army, apart from the obvious of being walking targets weighted down with all our gear along the front, or being buried underground tunnelling, but I don't think it would be a help to hear it tonight. It'll come soon enough. And he's already walked off anyway. Not all that sure what he's just asked me to do, either, but I suppose that'll come too. It occurs to me that he's never seen any action before, so what would he know, but he talks as if he has — but then he's a commissioned officer: he'd know more by the company he keeps when he's not with us.

Everyone knows it's not going to be a picnic. Still, we've all got helmets and gasmasks now. More protection than I ever had at the Wattle, or that they had at Gallipoli. Maybe they've got it better planned this time. Whatever, I do know it will be like nothing I've ever seen. And I'll be sticking with rule number one: I will be scared. I am scared. And Duncan doesn't need to tell me I'll be doing my best not to panic, like you wouldn't be trying very, very hard not to. It'd be the same reflex that'd make you shoot: you just don't let it get you. But what would I know? I'm not going to think any more about it till it happens.

It's pitch-black inside the brewery with no beer so I rootle around in my kitbag for a piece of paper and pencil and take it back outside, but it's clouded over again and it's just as dark out here, as if I could have seen anyway. I want to tell France that I love her. I know she knows, but I've never said it outright. Half the blokes inside write up their diaries and spend ages writing letters home, to their families, their wives, their sweethearts, the fucking postman, as we've all been encouraged to. What do they write about? Buggered if I know. What could I tell France apart from that I love her, that I want to see her belly growing, with us, but tough luck that I can't. Luck? The way I closed her out and then just left, left her alone, makes me feel, as they say in dinkum Gallipolese, like a fucked-up cunt. I've done this to myself, to us both, and my language has deteriorated further; France would be appalled and look at me and blink.

I focus on that as I draw in the dark anyway, then I find my way back in, and lie down and do it quietly so I pass out. There are plenty that do it louder than me tonight.