Tomorrow When The War Began

THE
TOMORROW SERIES

JOHN

MARSDEN

TOMORROW,

WHEN
THE

WAR
BEGAN

PAN

Pan
Macmillan Australia

This book was written
while the author was in receipt of a writer’s fellowship from the
Literature Board of the Australia Council, whose help is gratefully
acknowledged.

John Marsden’s website
can be visited at:

www.johnmarsden.com.au

First published 1993 in
Macmillan hardback by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia

First published in Pan
1994 by Pan Macmillan Publishers Australia

1
Market Street

,
Sydney

Reprinted 1994,1995
(five times), 1996 (four times), 1997 (four times), 1998 (three
times), 1999 (six times), 2000 (four times), 2001 (three times),
2002 (twice), 2003 (three times), 2004 (three times), 2005 (four
times), 2006 (three times), 2007 (twice), 2008

Copyright © JLM Pty Ltd
1993

The moral right of the
author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No
part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or
entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording, scanning, or by any information storage or
retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the
publisher.

National Library of
Australia

cataloguing-in-publication data:

Marsden, John, 1950-
.

Tomorrow, when the war
began.

ISBN
978-0-330-27486-9.

I. Title.

A823.3

Printed in Australia by
McPherson’s Printing Group

The characters and
events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real
persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Papers used by Pan
Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made
from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes
conform to the environmental regulations of the country of
origin.

To my dear sister Robin
Farran:

so much
admired.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter
Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter
Seven

Chapter
Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter
Eleven

Chapter
Twelve

Chapter
Thirteen

Chapter
Fourteen

Chapter
Fifteen

Chapter
Sixteen

Chapter
Seventeen

Chapter
Eighteen

Chapter
Nineteen

Chapter
Twenty

Chapter
Twenty-one

Chapter
Twenty-two

Epilogue

Author’s
Note

Acknowledgements

I’m grateful to Charlotte Austin, Frank
Austin, Ross Matlock, Jeanne Marsden, Roos Marsden, Catherine
Maxwell, Sarah Vickers-Willis and Scott Vickers-Willis for
providing some of the ideas, information or stories used in this
book.

Chapter One

It’s only half an hour since someone – Robyn I
think – said we should write everything down, and it’s only
twenty-nine minutes since I got chosen, and for those twenty-nine
minutes I’ve had everyone crowded around me gazing at the blank
page and yelling ideas and advice. Rack off guys! I’ll never get
this done. I haven’t got a clue where to start and I can’t
concentrate with all this noise.

OK, that’s better. I’ve told them to give me
some peace, and Homer backed me up, so at last they’ve gone and I
can think straight.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to do this. I
might as well say so now. I know why they chose me, because I’m
meant to be the best writer, but there’s a bit more to it than just
being able to write. There’s a few little things can get in the
way. Little things like feelings, emotions.

Well, we’ll come to that later. Maybe. We’ll
have to wait and see.

I’m down at the creek now, sitting on a fallen
tree. Nice tree. Not an old rotten one that’s been eaten by
witchetty grubs but a young one with a smooth reddish trunk and the
leaves still showing some green. It’s hard to tell why it fell – it
looks so healthy – but maybe it grew too close to the creek. It’s
good here. This pool’s only about ten metres by three but it’s
surprisingly deep – up to your waist in the middle. There’s
constant little concentric ripples from insects touching it as they
skim across the surface. I wonder where they sleep, and when. I
wonder if they close their eyes when they sleep. I wonder what
their names are. Busy, anonymous, sleepless insects.

To be honest I’m only writing about the pool
to avoid doing what I’m meant to be doing. That’s like Chris,
finding ways to avoid doing things he doesn’t want to do. See: I’m
not holding back. I warned them I wouldn’t.

I hope Chris doesn’t mind my being chosen to
do this instead of him, because he is a really good writer. He did
look a bit hurt, a bit jealous even. But he hasn’t been in this
from the start, so it wouldn’t have worked.

Well, I’d better stop biting my tongue and
start biting the bullet. There’s only one way to do this and that’s
to tell it in order, chronological order. I know writing it down is
important to us. That’s why we all got so excited when Robyn
suggested it It’s terribly, terribly important Recording what we’ve
done, in words, on paper, it’s got to be our way of telling
ourselves that we mean something, that we matter. That the things
we’ve done have made a difference. I don’t know how big a
difference, but a difference. Writing it down means we might be
remembered. And by God that matters to us. None of us wants to end
up as a pile of dead white bones, unnoticed, unknown, and worst of
all, with no one knowing or appreciating the risks we’ve run.

That makes me think that I should be writing
this like a history book, in very serious language, all formal. But
I can’t do that. Everyone’s got their own way and this is mine. If
they don’t like my way they’ll have to find someone else.

OK, better do it then.

It all began when ... They’re funny, those
words. Everyone uses them, without thinking what they mean. When
does anything begin? With everyone, it begins when you’re born. Or
before that, when your parents got married. Or before that, when
your parents were born Or when your ancestors colonised the place.
Or when humans came squishing out of the mud and slime, dropped off
their flippers and fins, and started to walk. But all the same, all
that aside, for what’s happened to us there was quite a definite
beginning.

So: it all began when Corrie and I said we
wanted to go bush, go feral for a few days over the Christmas
holidays. It was just one of those stupid things: ‘Oh wouldn’t it
be great if ...’ We’d camped out quite often, been doing it since
we were kids, taking the motorbikes all loaded with gear and going
down to the river, sleeping under the stars, or slinging a bit of
canvas between two trees on cold nights. So we were used to that.
Sometimes another friend would come along, Robyn or Fi usually.
Never boys. At that age you think boys have as much personality as
coat hangers and, you don’t notice their looks.

Then you grow up.

Well there we were, only weeks ago, though I
can hardly believe it, lying in front of the television watching
some junk and talking about the holidays. Corrie said, ‘We haven’t
been down to the river for ages. Let’s do that.’

‘OK. Hey, let’s ask Dad if we can have the
Landrover.’

‘OK. Hey, let’s see if Kevin and Homer want to
come.’

‘God yeah, boys! But we’d never be
allowed.’

‘I reckon we might. It’s worth a try.’

‘OK Hey, if we get the Landrover, let’s go
further. Wouldn’t it be great if we could go right up to Tailor’s
and into Hell.’

‘Yeah OK, let’s ask.’

Tailor’s, Tailor’s Stitch, is a long line, an
arete, that goes dead straight from Mt Martin to Wombegonoo. It’s
rocky, and very narrow and steep in places, but you can walk along
it, and there’s a bit of cover. The views are fantastic. You can
drive almost up on to it at one point, near Mt Martin, on an old
logging track that’s hard to find now, it’s so overgrown. Hell is
what’s on the other side of Tailor’s, a cauldron of boulders and
trees and blackberries and feral dogs and wombats and undergrowth.
It’s a wild place, and I didn’t know anyone who’d been there,
though I’d stood on the edge and looked down at it quite often. For
one thing I couldn’t see how you’d get in there. The cliffs all
around it are spectacular, hundreds of metres high in places.
There’s a series of small cliffs called Satan’s Steps that drop
into it, but believe me, if these are steps, the Great Wall of
China is our back fence. If there was any access the cliffs had to
be the way, and I’d always wanted to give it a go. The locals all
told stories about the Hermit from Hell, an ex-murderer who was
supposed to have lived up there for years. He was meant to have
killed his own wife and child. I wanted to believe in his existence
but I found it a bit difficult. My brain kept asking myself awkward
questions like: ‘How come he didn’t get hung, like they did to
murderers in those days?’ Still, it was a good story and I hoped it
was true; not the murders part but the hermit part at least.

Anyway, the whole thing the trip, grew from
there. We made this casual decision to do it, and we immediately
let ourselves in for a lot of hard work. The first job was to
persuade our mums and dads to let us go. It’s not that they don’t
trust us, but as Dad said, It’s a pretty big ask’. They spent a lot
of time not saying no, but trying to talk us into other things
instead. That’s the way most parents operate I think. They don’t
like to start a fight so they suggest alternatives that they think
they can say yes to and they hope you might say yes to. ‘Why don’t
you go down the river again?’ ‘Why don’t you ask Robyn and Meriam
instead of the boys?’ ‘Why don’t you just take bikes? Or even
horses? Make it a real old-fashioned campout That’d be fun.’

Mum’s idea of fun was making jam for the
Preserves section of the Wirrawee Show, so she was hardly an
authority on the subject. I feel a bit odd, writing things like
that, considering what we’ve all been through, but I’m going to be
honest, not mushy.

Finally we came to an agreement, and it wasn’t
too bad, considering. We could take the Landrover but I was the
only one allowed to drive it, even though Kevin had his P’s and I
didn’t. But Dad knows I’m a good driver. We could go to the top of
Tailor’s Stitch. We could invite the boys but we had to have more
people: at least six and up to eight. That was because Mum and Dad
thought there was less chance of an orgy if there were more people.
Not that they’d admit that was the reason – they said it was to do
with safety – but I know them too well.

And yes, I’ve written that ‘o’ in ‘know’
carefully – I wouldn’t want it to be contused with an ‘e’.

We had to promise not to take grog and smokes,
and we had to promise that the boys wouldn’t. It made me wonder
about the way adults turn growing up into such a complicated
process. They expect you to be always on the lookout for a chance
to do something wild Sometimes they even put ideas in your head I
don’t think we would have bothered to take any grog or smokes
anyway. Too expensive, for one thing – we were all pretty broke
after Christmas. But the funny thing is that when our parents
thought we were doing something wild we never were, and when they
thought we were being innocent we were usually up to something.
They never gave me a hard time about the school play rehearsals for
instance, but I spent all my time there with Steve, undoing each
other’s buttons and buckles, then frantically doing them up again
when Mr Kassar started bellowing, ‘Steve! Ellie! Are they at it
again? Someone get me a crowbar!’

Very humorous guy, Mr Kassar.

We ended up with a list of eight, counting us.
We didn’t ask Elliot, because he’s so lazy, or Meriam, because she
was doing work experience with Fi’s parents. But five minutes after
we made the list, one of the boys on it, Chris Lang, turned up at
my place with his dad. So we immediately put the question to them.
Mr Lang’s a big guy who always wears a tie, no matter where he is
or what he’s doing. He seems kind of heavy and serious to me. Chris
says his father was born on the corner of Straight and Narrow, and
that sums it up. When his dad’s around, Chris stays pretty quiet.
But we asked them as they sat at our kitchen table, pigging out on
Mum’s date scones, and we got knocked back in one sentence. It
turned out that Mr and Mrs Lang were going overseas, and even
though they had a worker, Chris had to stay home and keep an eye on
the place. So that was a bad start to our plans.

Next day though, I took a bike and rode across
the paddocks to Homer’s. Normally I’d go by road, but Mum’d been
getting a bit twitchy about the new cop in Wirrawee, who’d been
booking people left, right and centre. His first week in town he
booked the magistrate’s wife for not wearing a seatbelt. Everyone
was being careful till they’d broken this guy in.

I found Homer down at the creek testing a
valve that he’d just cleaned out. As I arrived he was holding it
high, watching optimistically to see if it was leaking. ‘Look at
that,’ he said as I got off the Yamaha. ‘Tight as a drum.’

‘What was the problem?’

‘I don’t know. All I know is that three
minutes ago it was losing water and now it isn’t. That’s good
enough for me.’ I picked up the pipe and held it for him as he
started screwing the valve back on. ‘I hate pumps,’ he said. ‘When
Poppa pops off I’m going to put dams in every paddock.’

‘Good. You can hire my earth-moving business
to put them in.’

‘Oh, is that your latest?’ He squeezed the
muscles on my right upper arm. ‘You’ll be able to dig dams by hand
the way you’re going.’ I gave a sudden shove, to try to push him
into the creek, but he was too strong. I watched him pump the pipe
up and down, to force water into it, then helped him carry buckets
up to the pump to finish the priming. On the way I told him our
plans.

‘Oh yeah, I’ll have a go at that,’ he said.
‘I’d rather we went to a tropical resort and drank cocktails with
umbrellas in them, but this’ll do in the meantime.’

We went back to his place for lunch, and he
asked his parents for permission to come on the camp. ‘Ellie and I
are going bush for a few days,’ he announced. That was Homer’s way
of asking permission. His mother didn’t react at all; his father
raised an eyebrow from above his cup of coffee; but his brother
started firing the questions. When I gave the dates, his brother,
George, said: ‘What about the Show?’

‘We can’t go any earlier,’ I said. ‘The
Mackenzies are shearing.’

‘Yeah, but who’s going to groom the bulls for
the Show?’

‘You’re a class act with a hair dryer,’ Homer
said. I’ve seen you in front of the mirror Saturday nights. Just
don’t go woggy with the bulls and put oil through their coats.’ He
said to me, ‘Poppa’s got a forty-four-gallon drum of oil in the
shed, especially for George on Saturday nights’.

As George was not known for his sense of
humour, I kept my eyes down and had another mouthful of
tabbouli.

So Homer was organised, and Corrie rang that
night to say Kevin was coming too. ‘He wasn’t all that keen,’ she
said. ‘Ithink he’d rather go to the Show. But he’s doing it for
me.’

‘Er, yuk, vomit, spew,’ I said. ‘Tell him to
go to the Show if that’s what he wants. There’s plenty of guys
who’d kill to come with us.’

‘Yeah, but they’re all under twelve,’ Corrie
sighed. ‘Kevin’s little brothers are desperate to come. But they’re
too young, even for you.’

‘And too old for you,’ I replied rudely.

I rang Fiona after the call from Corrie, and
told her our plans. ‘Do you want to come?’ I asked.

‘Oh!’ She sounded amazed, as if I’d told her
all about the trip just to entertain her. ‘Oh gosh. Do you want me
to?’

I didn’t even bother to answer that one.

‘Oh gosh.’ Fi was the only person I knew under
sixty who said ‘gosh’. ‘Who else is coming?’

‘Corrie and me. Homer and Kevin. And we
thought we’d ask Robyn and Lee.’

‘Well, I’d like to. Wait a sec, and I’ll go
and ask.’

It was a long wait. At last she came back with
a series of questions. She relayed my answers to her mother or
father, or both, in the background. After about ten minutes of this
there was another long conversation; then Fi picked up the phone
again.

‘They’re being difficult,’ she sighed. ‘I’m
sure it’ll be OK but my mum wants to ring your mum to make sure.
Sorry.’

‘That’s cool. I’ll put you down with a
question mark and I’ll talk to you at the weekend, OK?’

I hung up. It was getting hard to use the
phone, because the TV was yelling at me. Mum had it turned up too
loud, so she could hear the News in the kitchen. An angry face
filled the screen. I stopped and watched for a moment. ‘We’ve got a
wimp for a Foreign Minister,’ the face was shouting. ‘He’s weak,
he’s gutless, he’s the new Neville Chamberlain. He doesn’t
understand the people he’s dealing with. They respect strength, not
weakness!’