Tomorrow When The War Began (17 page)

‘That’s OK,’ I said uncomfortably. ‘You did
thank me once already. And you’d have done the same for us.’

‘And I’m sorry about yesterday.’

‘What’s to be sorry about? You said what you
wanted to say. You said what you thought. Which is more than I
did.’

‘Well, say it now.’

I grinned. ‘Maybe I should. Although I wasn’t
planning to say any more.’ I thought for a minute, and decided to
take the plunge. I was nervous, but it was exciting. ‘All right,
I’ll say what I think I think, but just remember, it’s not
necessarily what I really think, because I don’t know what I
think.’

He groaned. ‘Oh Ellie, you’re so frustrating.
You haven’t even started and already you’re getting me churned up.
This is the same as yesterday.’

‘Well do you want me to be honest or don’t
you?’

‘All right, go on, and I’ll try to keep
control of my blood pressure.’

‘OK.’ Having said that I wasn’t even sure of
where to start. ‘Lee, I do like you, very much. I think you’re
interesting, funny, smart, and you’ve got my favourite eyes in
Wirrawee. I’m just not sure that I like you in that way, you know
what I mean. That day in the hayshed, my feelings got the better of
me. But there’s something about you, I don’t know what it is, but
you make me nervous a little. I’ve never met anyone quite like you.
And one thing I wonder is, suppose we started going round together,
and it didn’t work out? Here we are, the seven of us, no, eight
now, living in this out-of-the-way place in these really strange
times, with the whole world turned upside down, yet we get on
pretty well together – most of the time. I’d hate to spoil that by
us two suddenly having a falling out and deciding we didn’t want to
see each other, or we were embarrassed to be together. That’d be
awful. It’d be like Adam and Eve having a fight in the Garden of
Eden. I mean, who would they talk to then? The apple tree? The
snake?’

‘Oh Ellie,’ Lee said. ‘Why do you have to
reason everything through all the time? The future is the future.
It has to take care of itself. You can sit here all day and make
guesses about it, and at the end of the day, what have you got? A
lot of dead guesses, that’s what. And in the meantime you haven’t
done anything, you haven’t lived, because you’ve been so busy
reasoning it all out.’

‘That’s not true,’ I said, getting annoyed.
‘The way we got the truck and rescued you, that was all done with
reason. If we hadn’t figured out all the possibilities first, it
never would have worked.’

‘But a lot of it you were just making up as
you went along,’ he said. ‘I remember how you told me you changed
the plan about something, the route you took I think it was. And
there were lots of things, like slamming the brakes on to catch the
car behind: that was you going with your gut feelings.’

‘So you think I should live life from the gut,
not from the head?’

He laughed. ‘Not when you put it like that. I
guess there’s a place for both. I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s
like my music.’ Lee was brilliant, Grade 6 piano already, the best
for his age in Wirrawee. ‘When I’m learning a piece, or when I’m
playing, I’ve got to have my heart and my mind involved. My mind is
thinking about technique and my heart is feeling the passion of the
music. So I suppose it’s the same as life. You’ve got to have
both.’

‘And you think I’m all head and no heart?’

‘No! Stop twisting what I’m saying. But
remember the guy who lived here. His heart must have gradually
dried up, till it was like a little dried apricot, and all he had
left was his reason. I hope it was a big consolation to him.’

‘So you do think I’m all head and no heart!
You think I’ll end up in this little hut, the Hermitess from Hell,
no friends, no one to love me. Excuse me, I’m going down the garden
to eat worms.’

‘No, I just think that for some things, for
example liking someone, for example liking me, you’re being too
careful and calculating. You should just go with the feelings.’

‘But my feelings are that I’m confused,’ I
said miserably.

‘That’s probably because your feelings are
being confused by your mind. Your feelings might be coming through
loud and clear, but before they get to the surface your brain gets
in the way and muddles them around.’

‘So I’m a sort of TV that’s been put too close
to a computer? I’m getting interference with my picture?’ I wasn’t
sure if I believed all this or if it was just Lee spinning a line.
Guys will say anything.

‘Yes!’ Lee said. ‘The question is, what
programme’s showing on the TV? A debate on the meaning of life, or
a passionate love story?’

‘I know what you’d like it to be,’ I said. ‘A
porno starring us.’

He grinned. ‘How can I say I love you for your
mind, after everything I’ve just said? But I do.’

It was the first time he’d used the word love,
and it sobered me, a bit. This relationship could easily get
serious. The trouble was, I was avoiding mentioning Homer, and one
reason Lee couldn’t understand me was because he didn’t understand
about Homer – although he’d had a guess, the day before. I think
he’d have been less confused if I’d been more honest with him. But
I knew about Homer, and I was still confused. I sighed, and got
up.

‘Come on cripple, let’s go and look at the
hut.’

This was my third trip to the hut, so it was
losing interest for me a little. But Lee poked around for quite a
while. There was more light in there this time; it probably all
depended on the time of day, but there was some filtered sunlight
that relieved the darkness along the back wall. Lee went to the
hut’s only window, a glassless square in the back wall. He put his
head through it and had a look at the mint outside, then
investigated the rotting window frame.

‘Beautifully made,’ he said. ‘Look at these
joints. Wait, there’s some metal here.’

‘How do you mean?’ I came up beside him as he
started wrestling with the window sill. I could see then what he
meant – the sill was rotting through, and between the decayed
splinters a dull black metal surface was visible. Suddenly Lee
lifted the sill straight off. It was clearly made to come away, for
underneath was a geometrically neat cavity, not much bigger than a
shoe box. And fitting neatly into it was a grey metal cashbox,
about shoebox size.

‘Wow!’ I was astonished and excited. ‘Unreal!
It’s probably full of gold.’

Lee, eyes staring, lifted it out.

‘It’s pretty light,’ he said. ‘Too light for
gold.’

The box was showing the early signs of rust,
with some red lines starting to creep along it, but it was in good
condition. It was unlocked, and opened easily. Craning over Lee’s
arm, I saw nothing but papers and photographs. It was
disappointing, although as I realised later gold wasn’t much use to
us, living our guerilla life up in the mountains. Lee lifted out
the papers and the photos. Underneath them was a small blue case,
like a wallet, but made of stiffer material and fastened with a
small gold clasp. He opened that, carefully. Inside, wrapped in
tissue paper and resting on white linen cloth, was a brightly
coloured short wide ribbon, attached to a heavy bronze medal.

‘Fantastic,’ I breathed. ‘He was a war
hero.’

Lee took it out. On the front was a relief of
a king – I’m not sure which one – and the words ‘He who would
valiant be’. Lee turned it over. On the back was engraved: ‘Bertram
Christie, for gallantry, Battle of Marana’, and a date which was
too blurred to read. The ribbon was coloured red, yellow and blue.
We handled it, felt it, wondered over it, then wrapped it back up
carefully and replaced it in its box before turning our attention
to the papers.

There were a few of these: a notebook, a
letter or two, some newspaper clippings and a couple of official
looking documents. There were three photographs: one of a stern
looking young couple on their wedding day, one of the woman alone,
standing in front of a bare wooden house, and one of the woman with
a toddler. The woman was young, but looked sad; she had long dark
hair and a slim smooth face. She might have been Spanish. I looked
at the photos intently.

‘These must be the ones he murdered,’ I
whispered.

‘Funny that he kept their photos if he
murdered them,’ Lee said.

I looked at the face of the man in the wedding
photo. He looked young, younger than the woman maybe. He gazed
steadily at the camera, clear strong eyes and a firm clean-shaven
chin. I could see nothing of the murderer in his face and nothing
of the victim in his wife’s or child’s.

Lee started opening the documents. The first
seemed to be a newspaper account of a sermon. I only read the first
paragraph. The sermon was based on a verse from the Bible, ‘A
fool’s mouth is his ruin, and his lips are a snare to himself’. It
looked long and boring, so I didn’t read any more. The other
newspaper clipping was a short article that was headlined ‘Victims
of Mt Tumbler Tragedy Laid to Rest’. It read:

A small group of mourners were in attendance at the Mt Tumbler
Church of England on Monday last, where Revd Horace Green conducted
a service for Burial of the Dead. Laid to rest were Imogen Mary
Christie, of Mt Tumbler, and her infant child Alfred Bertram
Christie, aged three.The Christie family were not well known, being
newly arrived, living a goodly distance from town, and being
apparently of reclusive disposition, but the tragedy has aroused
considerable sentiment in the district, which was touched on most
feelingly by Revd Green in his address, which had for its text ‘Man
that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of
misery; he cometh up and is cut down like a flower’.The deceased
were then interred in the Mt Tumbler cemetery.A public meeting will
be held in the Mt Tumbler School of Arts on Monday next, under the
chairmanship of Mr Donald McDonald, JP, to canvass again the
possibility of obtaining the services of a medical practitioner for
the Mt Tumbler district. The Christie tragedy has led to fresh
agitation for the provision of medical services for the area.An
inquest into the deaths of Mrs Christie and her child will take
place at the next visit of the magistrate to the district, on April
15. In the meantime Constable Whykes has cautioned against idle
tongues making loose speculation upon the facts of the case; a
sentiment most earnestly shared by this correspondent.

That was all. I read it over Lee’s shoulder.
‘It seems to raise more questions than it answers,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t mention the husband at all,’ Lee
said.

The next item was a stiff formal card of cream
paper, though yellowed now. It seemed to be the citation to
accompany the medal. In ornate flowing writing it described the
actions of Private Bertram Christie in running forward under enemy
fire to rescue a wounded and unconscious ‘corporal of another
regiment’. ‘In conveying his fellow-soldier safely back to his own
lines Private Christie endangered his own life and displayed
conspicuous gallantry, for which His Majesty is pleased to honour
Private Bertram Christie with the award of the St George
Medal.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Lee said.

‘Sounds like you and Robyn,’ I said. ‘I reckon
she should get a medal.’

There were a few odds and ends then: birth
certificates for all three Christies, the marriage certificate of
Bertram and Imogen, a postcard addressed to Bertram from his wife,
and saying merely ‘We will be on the 4.15 train. Mother sends her
kind regards. Your devoted wife, Imogen.’ There were some bank
documents and a notebook containing lots of accounts and figures. I
pointed to one item that said, ‘To a double bed, £4/10/6’.

‘How much is that?’ Lee asked.

‘About eight dollars I think. Don’t you double
the number of pounds? I don’t know what you do with the shillings
and pence.’

Then we came to the last of the formal
documents, a long sheet of paper with a red seal on top. It was
typed and signed at the bottom with a black flourish of ink. We
settled down to read it, and found in the dry language of the
coroner the story of the man who had killed his wife and child:

Be it known by all persons having business with His Majesty’s
Courts that I, HAROLD AMORY DOUGLAS BATTY, being duly appointed
Magistrate and Coroner in the District of Mt Tumbler, make the
following findings and recommendations with respect to the deaths
of IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, aged twenty-four, married woman of this
parish, and ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE, aged three, infant of this
parish, both residing at Block 16A on the Aberfoyle track,
forty-four miles to the southwest of Pink Mountain:1.
   
That both deceased met their
deaths on or about December 24 last, at the hands of BERTRAM HUBERT
SEXTON CHRISTIE, as a result of bullet wounds to the
head.2.
   
That both
deceased lived with BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, farmer, in the
relationships respectively of wife and son to the said BERTRAM
HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, in a wooden cottage at the above address,
this being a particularly remote part of the Mt Tumbler
district.3.
   
That
there is no evidence of marital disharmony between BERTRAM HUBERT
SEXTON CHRISTIE and IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, and that on the contrary
BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE was a loving husband and father,
IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE a dutiful and even-tempered wife, and the
child ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE a sweet child of good disposition,
and that is the testimony of WILSON HUBERT GEORGE, farmer, and
neighbour to the deceased, and MURIEL EDNA MAYBERRY, married woman
and neighbour to the deceased.4.
   
That the nearest medical
practitioner or nursing sister to the Christies was at DunstanLake,
being a day and a half’s ride away, and further.5.
   
That severe bushfires were
burning on and around the Aberfoyle track, the Mt Tumbler-Mt
Octopus Road, Wild Goat Track and to the south of PinkMountain,
which had the effect of isolating the Christie property, and that
this information was known to BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON
CHRISTIE.6.