Gallipoli Street (16 page)

She reflected later it would have been better if he had ranted and railed at her, flung himself to the floor or punched the wall, anything but that look; that devastated look. Like she'd broken him in half. And then he was gone. She'd even wondered if she had dreamt it but then there it was, the same look the next day as she waved goodbye from the crowd. Even across the Quay she could feel the emptiness he carried and it made her ache to run up the gangway and take it all back. Tell him she never loved Dan – she couldn't love Dan. That she only said yes because he was off to war and he'd begged her. That she had thought she was facing life alone anyway, and a kind man at her side was a better companion than loneliness.

That she would give anything to be free to love him.

Catherine looked over at Veronica as the boat made its slow yet resolute way, taking their boys, leaving them with their dread. The cacophony of gaiety and song fell like a warning drone upon their ears, the streamers thrusting the air like swords, the confetti raining like tears.

Then Catherine turned back and, forcing a brave smile, waved her handkerchief and blew Tom and Mick a kiss. Veronica realised it was all any of them could do. Pretend. The only weapon of those left behind and the greatest gift they could offer those departing. These young men they so loved. These precious, precious lives.

Pretend.
Everything will be all right. We are not worried. We know you'll come home safe to us again and we'll laugh at your adventures and the folly of it
all
.

And so Veronica waved her handkerchief and blew her kisses at Mick and Tom too, and, as they sailed away, she added one more message to her list of pretendings and sent it to the man who stood alongside them.
And we'll marry other people and grow old as friends and forget that silly night long ago, the night before you left for
war.

And we'll live happily apart, ever a
fter.

Cairo, Egypt, February 1915

Iggy eyed the old piano greedily, running his hand across the dusty keys as Simmo pulled up a chair behind him.

‘Come on, give us a song!' he urged, laughing. In the interminable months of his illness, Iggy had dreamt of this moment, when he could speak to his beloved keys again. His fingers found their way and began their familiar dance as the others roared with delight and began to prance about to the sprightly tune.

Simmo was a very tall, very large country boy from just outside Orange, and a fellow patient in the Cairo rehabilitation hospital, where both had recovered after the voyage; Iggy from seasickness and Simmo from appendicitis. He had kept Iggy continually amused with his distrust of all things foreign, insisting on smuggling in good ‘Aussie tucker' whenever possible. Iggy was in constant bemusement as to how the intrepid Simmo managed to find white bread, blackberry jam and the occasional bit of pudding in Egypt, later finding out his sister was a maid for one of the ‘toffs' in command.

In return Iggy had entertained him with stories from home, describing to the incredulous Simmo a world of glamorous women, tennis courts and swimming pools, racing cars, sleek horses, music and balls.

Somewhere along the line they had become firm friends, and Iggy knew that this party was all his doing. Apparently, when Simmo had seen the old piano in the corner of the brothel the day before, he had decided his mate could use a pleasant surprise on his first day out after weeks of ‘bein' crook'. He and a few of the others had made a deal with Delilah, the madam, promising a swag of men with pocketbooks full of money if she would allow them to have a private party, including use of the piano and ‘some decent plonk, not Gippo rotgut'. Delilah kept her part of the deal and the men were amazed to find real whisky in their glasses, served by scantily clad exotic beauties who were soon scooped up into burly arms and spun about the dance floor.

Iggy had to hand it to Simmo: if you wanted something, he was your man.

Jack was laughing as Tom and Mick dragged him along through the streets of Cairo, all of them feeling the effects of the cheap booze they had been swilling, which Tom figured was possibly camel urine.

The past few weeks of training in the desert had been a distraction of sorts for Jack, but an exhausting one. In some ways he felt the strangeness of the camp reflected his general state of mind. Mena House sat at its centre, a graceful hunting lodge that had been converted into a hospital, and the Australian camp surrounded it in a city of tents. Against the backdrop of this circus-like scene rose the ancient pyramids and the Great Sphinx, and Jack felt eerily that they watched the soldiers' games of war like benevolent gods.

It was good to have a break from training and spend time with Tom and Mick.

His riding boots were covered in dust as they urged him to keep up, promising him great fortune if he bought a lucky charm from a certain shop they had discovered a week earlier.

Jack guffawed in amusement as they wandered into the wrong shops time and again, taking pleasure in the escape the alcohol provided from his constant, troubled thoughts. Especially the last image he had of Veronica as they left. Just one small face in a crowd, yet he couldn't get it out of his mind. He hadn't even been able to bring himself to wave goodbye as the list of things that separated them grew from Dan Hagan, to oceans, to war.

Tom and Mick had been standing with him and, somewhere further along, Iggy. It seemed it was his destiny to be best mates with the brothers of women who had broken his heart. Not that he had spoken to Iggy that day. It was a few days later, when he'd visited Tom on duty in the infirmary to find a writhing, clammy Iggy restless on his bunk, when the confronting moment finally arrived. And not that it was much of a confrontation at that, just a small bolt of shock at that face, so similar to the one that caused him such hurt, then an awkward moment broken by Tom.

‘Anyone fancy an afternoon drink? I think I'll just go visit the cocktail lounge,' he'd said in a lofty voice, holding a penny on his eye like a monocle and humming a waltz as he made pretend cocktails with bedpans in the corner. The other patients laughed and called out requests, giving Iggy and Jack an excuse to laugh a little themselves, and the tension eased.

Jack stood by his bed, twisting his hat. What to say to the brother of the woman who had betrayed him, a man who he'd considered a friend only a year ago? A man about to walk into battle alongside him. They needed to put the past behind them and all the foolishness of women and romance because, with Iggy in his regiment, there was no room for anything but absolute trust. Jack realised that was it. Trust. Suddenly there was only one thing he needed to ask.

‘Did you know?'

Iggy stared up at him, his eyes large and sunken. ‘Absolutely no idea.'

Jack nodded. ‘Fair enough then.'

‘Well come on, kiss and make up. I have vomit to tend to by the bucketload here. The King of Thomas Island absolutely cannot hold his liquor down by George!' Tom pranced over, waggling his finger at a patient he had crowned with a bedpan.

And that was all there was to it in the end. With Tom and Mick kept busy with seasick patients in the first few weeks, Jack had spent many hours playing chess and cards with Iggy, discussing music, horses and politics mostly, finding he had much in common with the amusing, articulate invalid. He missed their chats now they were in Cairo and training each day and looked forward to Iggy's release from the rehabilitation hospital, which Mick had heard through the medical grapevine would be some time in the next week. It would be good to have his mate in his unit.

During the entire voyage Iggy never made mention of Rose, which Jack appreciated, but at the same time he wouldn't have cared if he had. It seemed so long ago and so unimportant.

Veronica was another story. How he cursed the fact that he was privy to her secret.

One particular night on the crossing, after a few drinks, Mick had said something that made his heart ache for a while. They were sitting in the infirmary and Mick had been talking about a picnic they had enjoyed courtesy of Clarkson and his ‘Sunbeam of Wonders', when Veronica's name came up.

‘She was so funny. She actually believed Clarkson when he told her there was a puppy in the larder. In fairness, he had already produced a chest of ice with champagne and a collapsible table. And a chicken.'

‘Well, you've got to have chicken with champagne,' argued Tom.

‘Yes, but it helps if you kill it first.' They all laughed loudly at that. ‘Anyway, she heard this whining and opened the boot and out jumps Tom! Bounded around after her the rest of the afternoon until Dan had to build her a little fortress out of sand and stand guard.' Mick stopped as the laughter faded and there was an awkward silence. Finally it seemed Tom couldn't stand it.

‘You don't have to hide it from us, mate. We saw on the last night as plain as day how you feel about Vera and you never know what might happen when we get home. Chin up!'

‘Think I missed that boat, lads,' Jack replied, wishing they knew the truth.

‘Nonsense,' Tom declared, ‘I reckon you've got just as much chance as that young fella…all's fair in love and whisky…
hic
…I mean war. Who's been spiking my drink?'

‘Rather not talk about it.' Jack drained his cup, giving Iggy a thankful glance as he changed the subject.

‘So did you kill the chicken?'

‘No. Pattie and Clarkson married her to King Henry,' Mick revealed, laughing. ‘A wedding practice run of sorts they said. Apparently there was a lot of chicken feed throwing instead of confetti.'

Jack knew he just had to put up with the fact that Veronica's brothers would talk about her and make him ache even more, because there wasn't any question of Jack ever trying to stay away from them. They seemed to consider a mate's morale their personal responsibility, especially Tom, who bounded through life on the boat as if he were on holiday. He forced Jack out of his melancholy time and again, dragging him about to meet every other Tom and Dick and Harry on the ship whenever he was off duty. A one-man party was Tom, and so well liked the three of them couldn't go five paces in Cairo without somebody hailing them over to clap him on the back and swap a few jokes, Australians and Egyptians alike. Combine that with the camel urine and Jack could almost say he was enjoying himself.

Tom and Mick had located the shop at last, larger than the rest and with better quality goods, and the shopkeeper Ammon greeted Tom like an old friend. Mick was busy haggling over a silk scarf he wanted to buy for a pretty nurse back at the camp hospital when Tom eyed Jack staring at some jewel-encrusted rings in a locked glass cabinet.

‘Contemplating a new look for yourself? Can't say you won't get thumped if you wear one of those, but don't worry, I'll patch you up,' he assured him. Jack cuffed him about the ears before asking the eager shop owner for a closer look at a beautiful deep sapphire and gold ring. Ammon unlocked the cabinet and handed it to Jack, who turned it into the sunlight. It shone a pure dark blue, which Jack figured was close to the colour of Veronica's eyes. It was probably the alcohol fuzzing his common sense but for some reason he had to buy it, even though he knew he could never really give it to her, especially as she was about to become someone else's wife. But he didn't care. It reminded him of her and he wanted it.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the others weren't looking, he impulsively purchased the ring, stumbling a bit to use a good portion of the roll of notes he stashed into his sock each day, along with his other precious belongings.

Ammon noticed his bulging boot and handed him a beautiful flat tin, pausing as he held it.

‘Bringing luck. Khepri will protect.' He pointed at the winged beetle holding a sun at the centre and nodded at him. Jack nodded back, focusing with a little difficulty on the ancient symbol before placing his things inside and securing it in his top breast pocket.

Mick bought some silk scarves and Tom a pharaoh head lucky charm (which looked suspiciously to Jack like an ashtray) before the three of them tumbled back out onto the street, declaring it was time for another drink. They twisted down some alleyways towards the seedier part of town, known as the Wazza, joining the trail of some fellow Australian soldiers.

‘Hang on, what's going on over there?' Tom led them towards the sound of music and laughter and they turned a corner to the sight of a brothel that had prostitutes baring parts of their bodies out through the windows. The stench of stale perfume mixed with tobacco smoke assaulted them as several soldiers lazed against the doorway.

‘G'day, Mick! How ar'ya Tom?' greeted one of them, holding up his bandaged hand in recognition of the brothers.