To Love a Sunburnt Country

by Jackie French

  They marched, even the elderly woman with her suitcase, or rather straggled, one of the guards in front, one behind, the translator walking more or less beside them.

  More of the strange short trees laid out like a plantation. Chinese men chopping wood who glanced at them, then quickly, carefully looked away.

  The air grew thick with moisture. Nancy’s feet hurt, even though the road was mud, not rock. Moira hobbled, her feet bare too. Gavin began to cry, a thin wail. He needed a drink. They all needed a drink, a rest. But a baby would get ill, might die. She had to help. She couldn’t help. She had to try.

  ‘Please may we stop to give the baby a drink?’ She waited for the cane to strike her again.

  The translator glanced at the guard, gave an almost imperceptible nod. The cane flashed down again. But this time it landed on her clothed back, so lightly it hardly hurt at all. Another blow came, even softer than the first.

  ‘You will sit. The baby will be fed,’ ordered the translator.

  They sat on the muddy side of the road, except for Nancy, who stood in front of Moira to give her privacy. Gavin whimpered, then was quiet. Nancy leant over her shoulder and was relieved to see he was feeding well, clapping his feet together in the way he always did when he was pleased with life.

  On the other side of her the younger woman opened her suitcase. She pulled out a pair of golf shoes, well made of solid leather, and a pair of golfing socks. She passed them silently to Moira, glancing nervously at the guard.

  Moira nodded her thanks. The shoes looked slightly too big for her. But better too big, thought Nancy, than too small. The younger woman gave Nancy a small shrug, as if to say those were the only other shoes she had. The older woman gave a small sympathetic nod as well. But if she had spare shoes, they’d be far too small for me, thought Nancy. Her feet might ache, but at least they wouldn’t get blisters, which could so easily become infected.

  At last Gavin finished. The guards and the translator stood. They too, it seemed, had been glad of the rest in the heat. They marched again, Moira holding Gavin over her shoulder to burp him.

  Water, thought Nancy wearily. Please, please, a drink of water soon. A proper bed and food. Let the camp be around the next bend …

  Another bend. Another.

  Then there it was.

  She stared, her mind unable to accept it.

  Two houses, one a comfortable-looking, verandaed dwelling, a plantation owner’s or manager’s, with a smaller house next door. A Japanese officer sat on a chair on the veranda, but made no sign that he had seen them. There were shrubs in front, bougainvilleas that sprawled over a stump. But behind …

  The area behind the houses had been fenced into a neat rectangle, enclosed in rolls of barbed wire, too tall to climb over, too wide to crawl through. Inside was mud, pale red mud, and three buildings. The first looked solid though small, two rooms perhaps, a bamboo frame and a proper suspended floor to let the breezes through and an outdoor kitchen next to it, the kitchen paved with rocks and a small awning above. A huddle of women sat around the open fireplace, intent on something on the ground, except for one large woman reclining in an incongruous green velvet armchair.

  The next building was a storeroom, perhaps, with a tin roof, bamboo and thatch walls. The third might have been a garage, with thatch walls that didn’t quite meet the bamboo frond roof.

  A gate … a quite substantial gate. One of the guards opened it and gestured them inside.

  The guards left. The translator too.

  The women stood there, unable to talk. Shock, weariness, disbelief.

  ‘I wouldn’t keep a dog in this,’ said the older woman. ‘Mrs Barry Harris,’ she introduced herself. ‘Mrs Deirdre Harris. This is Mrs Neville Montrain. Sally Montrain.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Harris,’ said Moira. ‘This is my sister-in-law …’

  Nancy hardly listened to the introductions. The other women had seen them now. The big woman rose from her armchair. She was perhaps sixty, not just tall but so wide Nancy wondered how she had fitted in the chair, rolls of fat at her wrists, her ankles as thick as most people’s knees above neat shoes and stockings … real stockings. She even wore lipstick, as well as ropes of pearls, assorted brooches, bracelets, rings and what Nancy realised were more rings threaded on a gold chain about her throat.

  The bejewelled mountain spoke. ‘Good afternoon. I am Mrs Hughendorn. My husband and I own this plantation.’ The voice was loud enough, the English vowels clear enough, to be heard a dozen paddocks away. She spoke in the present tense, not as if all she had — even perhaps her husband — had been taken from her.

  ‘Good afternoon …’ began Moira.

  Mrs Hughendorn held up her hand. ‘I think introductions can wait for …’ she hesitated, ‘after dinner. We are having a little trouble lighting the fire. You are in building number three.’ She gestured to the shed.

  ‘But …’ began Sally.

  Mrs Hughendorn was examining Nancy, her eyes lingering on the black hair, brown eyes, newly tanned skin. She is wondering if I am Eurasian, thought Nancy. ‘I’m afraid it is the only place left. There are already nine of us. There is no space in the other buildings even for a bed.’

  Beds, thought Nancy. At least we have beds. She hoped they had not been relegated to the shed because of the colour of her skin.

  ‘Put your things inside and join us.’ Mrs Hughendorn lowered her voice to a clear, well-bred roar. ‘Keep an eye out for the guards though. The taller one will steal anything. Even the blanket while you sleep.’

  ‘They come in while you sleep?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Tie the blanket to your big toe.’ It sounded so ridiculous, so impossibly regal coming from the large woman, that Nancy would have giggled, if she had not been so tired. Even her bones seemed tired, her brain wanting the blank of sleep or at least a rest from terror.

  Mrs Hughendorn descended again into her armchair. The armchair seemed to sigh, but bore it dutifully. The four women trudged over to the shed.

  A doorway. No door. Two rows of short, narrow bamboo beds, four in each row, with bamboo slats for a base. No mattresses, no bedding. Dirt floor. A faint smell of petrol. And another more basic stench from not far away.

  ‘It’s grim, isn’t it?’ Another woman had come up behind them. She held out a tanned hand to Nancy. Michael’s mother shook people’s hands, but this was the first time Nancy had seen any other woman shake hands. ‘I’m Nurse Rogers. Elizabeth Rogers. There are three of us nurses in Hut Number Two. Australian. We ran an out-clinic from Singapore. Had the bad luck to be here when the Japs landed.’

  ‘How long ago was that? I’m Nancy Clancy,’ added Nancy. ‘This is my sister-in-law, Moira Clancy, and her son, Gavin. We’re Australian too. And this is Mrs Harris and Mrs Montrain.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. Though not under quite these circumstances. We’ve all been here just over three weeks, apart from you. You’ve got bedding?’

  Sally and Mrs Harris nodded. ‘Moira and I haven’t,’ said Nancy. ‘And there’s nothing for Gavin.’

  Sally smiled and reached out for the baby. She examined him half professionally, half clucking as he grinned and pulled at her hair. ‘You’re quite a young man, aren’t you, if you can smile at a time like this? Have you come from one of the other islands?’

  ‘The ship we were on sank.’

  ‘Any other survivors?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’ She didn’t mention the bodies on the beach. The horror was too recent. Nor did she want to burden the others with the terror that death might come to them suddenly, at the whim of a Japanese soldier. Besides, if the Japanese knew that someone had witnessed the atrocity, they might decide to silence them — and anyone else who knew about it.

  ‘We’ve got some spare bedding — they let us bundle up everything we could carry at the clinic. We looked like a row of porters, but it’s been useful. There’s mosquito netting for you at least, young man,’ she added to Gavin. ‘I’d better get
back to what passes for dinner. If we can get the fire going before the rain arrives. Oops, too late,’ as the air poured out its moisture, sluicing across the roof. Drips wriggled down the insides of the walls and a few heavy splodges on the beds.

  ‘Buckets!’ yelled Nurse Rogers into the deluge. ‘Got to remind the others to put out the buckets when it rains.’ She added more quietly to Nancy, ‘We only get four buckets full, for drinking. Now at least you can have a drink.’

  ‘Bathroom?’ asked Moira hopefully.

  Nurse Rogers pointed to a concrete channel at the edge of the compound that had once perhaps watered the servants’ vegetable gardens. ‘The guards pour a few buckets of water down that just before dark for us to wash in. It’s pretty foul. I think it’s the water they’ve already used for bathing.’

  Nancy’s skin itched again. Dam— bother it, she thought. She stepped out into the downpour, felt the fresh water drench her hair, her skin, her dress. It felt cold and fresh and wonderful. She held up her arms and let the water trickle down her skin.

  ‘Nancy!’ said Moira.

  ‘Come on out! Bring Gavin! Get the salt off your skin. We’ll soon dry off.’

  Moira hesitated. Suddenly she grinned. She took Gavin from Nurse Rogers and stepped out into the rain. Gavin shrieked an objection, then stopped, puzzled at his mother’s and aunt’s grins. His fuzzy baby hair plastered itself to his scalp.

  The downpour stopped. For a few seconds Nancy could see a white curtain sweep across the compound, then it was gone.

  ‘Now we’ll never get the fire lit.’ To Nancy’s surprise, Nurse Rogers sounded as though she was almost in tears. Surely a woman as capable as this wouldn’t cry over one spoilt meal.

  They trudged after her, through the mud, over to the outdoor kitchen. The other women huddled back, under the awning, except for two kneeling by the fire pit. Mrs Hughendorn, still in her armchair, put down an umbrella. She looked at Nancy and Moira disapprovingly. ‘Miss Clancy, Mrs Clancy, I should make one thing clear. We may not have much here, but we do not let the side down.’

  ‘Mrs Hughendorn, I’m so sorry,’ said Moira. ‘We have been in a shipwreck.’ For a moment her voice shook. She visibly straightened herself. ‘We were in the sea for many hours and we were just so desperate to wash off the salt. Particularly off Gavin.’

  Mrs Hughendorn’s gaze softened slightly as she looked at Gavin. She looked at Nancy again, and her eyes narrowed. ‘Would you like to sit on the end there, Miss Clancy.’ It was not a question. She gestured imperiously. ‘Mrs Clancy, there is a seat up here, if you and your son would like to join me.’

  ‘There’ was at the far end of the line of blocks of wood, next to a Eurasian woman, perhaps thirty years old. Banished to social oblivion, thought Nancy, as she suppressed a slightly hysterical giggle. ‘Mrs Thomas Addison,’ said the woman quietly. She looked Chinese, thought Nancy, black hair drawn back into a neat French knot. ‘My husband is with the Volunteers. He’s the port agent here, for the gambir.’

  ‘Gambir?’

  Mrs Hughendorn interrupted her cross-examination of Moira to fix Nancy with a steely eye. She’s even wearing fresh lipstick, thought Nancy half admiringly.

  ‘Gambir is the major product of these islands. So useful for tanning, silk dying. The natives chew it too. My husband and I have owned the plantation here for the past seven years, though I am afraid the competition from the Chinese cartels,’ the eye was now fixed on Mrs Addison, ‘has made it less profitable than it should be. And we have a good acreage in pepper too, of course.’ Mrs Hughendorn made it sound as if excluding pepper vines from one’s plantation was a worse sin than wearing diamonds at a formal luncheon.

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Nancy.

  Mrs Hughendorn’s frown deepened. ‘Enough of that. We need to get the fire lit. Now.’

  One of the two women kneeling shook her head. She seemed close to tears. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hughendorn. We’ve used ten matches, and there are only twenty left. It would just be wasting them to try again. You can’t light wet wood.’

  ‘Yes, you can,’ said Nancy.

  They all stared at her. She flushed.

  ‘Well, you can,’ she added.

  ‘You sound very sure of yourself,’ said Mrs Hughendorn. ‘Unfortunately we can’t waste matches for you to show us your, ahem, skill.’

  ‘Half a match,’ said Nancy. ‘Do you have a knife? No? Doesn’t matter. I’ll use my teeth.’

  She heard rather than saw Moira give a small sigh next to Mrs Hughendorn. She took the matchbox from one of the kneeling women, bit the wood end of the match in two, then peeled it carefully in half. She put both halves in the box for safekeeping.

  Now, tinder … She looked around. A pile of sweepings in a corner, leaves and flower petals, the usual compound accumulation of the day before, though this looked like it might be a full two weeks’ worth. She hunted under the pile and found what she was looking for — dry leaves and twigs.

  She examined the wood. It was unfamiliar and too thick to burn well, but as she thought, only the outside was wet. They’d have to split it to expose the dry part. ‘I need a rock,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘Nancy …’ began Moira warningly.

  She was going to alienate these proper mems. She knew it. But she was hungry. Gavin was hungry, despite Moira’s milk. Moira might not be able to keep feeding him if she didn’t have food. Now. And the night was going to be chilly. Despite her assurances that they’d soon dry, they needed a fire, Gavin most of all.

  ‘A rock,’ she repeated.

  She looked down at the rock paving, used her fingers to prise up a stone, then struck it hard on the others. It split, just as she hoped. She held up a block of wood on its end, put the jagged end of the rock next to it, then used another block of wood to bash the rock. The wood split. She split that half into quarters, then the quarters into eighths. The rock’s edge was almost blunt now, but she was able to cut up a second block.

  She glanced around. The women watched her silently.

  She parted the damp ash in the fire pit, made a small tent of split wood, filled it with dry leaves and twigs, then placed some of the larger bits of wood propped up against the tiny structure. She reached for the matchbox, sheltered the half-match with her cupped hands as she struck it against the box, next to the tinder. It flared, fast and hot.

  ‘It will burn itself out, I’m afraid,’ proclaimed Mrs Hughendorn.

  Nancy said nothing. The fire continued to flare, higher and hotter, the flames biting into the larger hunks of wood now. She put on some larger pieces, watched them steam then catch alight, then hesitated. ‘Do we have plenty of wood?’

  ‘The one thing you do have on a gambir plantation is wood,’ said Mrs Hughendorn, a new note in her voice now, and difficult to read. Perhaps Mrs Hughendorn herself did not know what was proper to feel towards a hoyden who could make fire from wet wood and a rock, but a fire they so badly needed. The big woman leant forwards and put her hands towards the blaze. Moira edged her block of wood towards the fire, the warmth of her body on one side of Gavin, the fire on the other.

  Nurse Rogers silently handed Nancy the cooking pot. Nancy peered in it. Chunks of what looked like sweet potato, some sort of greens that smelt like rotten cabbage, a scatter of sago floating in the water. ‘Nothing else?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘No,’ said Nurse Rogers. The one word said it all. Explained why a woman might cry at the thought of losing even a few mouthfuls of warm food. ‘This is what we’ve had for two weeks. Sometimes cassava, or more sago. A couple of coconuts. No fish or meat.’

  ‘But … but we can’t eat this for three meals a day,’ protested Moira.

  ‘Two meals,’ said Nurse Rogers expressionlessly. ‘Breakfast after roll call. Make sure you bow low. You’re beaten if you don’t bow low enough. We’ve asked for more food.’ She shrugged. ‘That gets a beating too.’

  Nancy put the pot on the fire, watched the edges of the water sizzle in the heat. Thin
k of home, she thought, with a brief prayer of thanks to Mr Harding. Of Michael, laughing by the river bank as he fed Sheba apples. Of the wedge-tailed eagle, dark against the sky, the bleat of sheep from the far paddocks. Think of home and I will get there.

  She looked through the rising heat shimmer at Moira and Gavin, huddled towards the fire. And my family will get there too.

  Chapter 20

  Gibber’s Creek Gazette, 23 February 1942

  Damage Still Unknown from Japanese Strike on Australian Mainland

  There is still no update on the damage wreaked by the two hundred enemy planes that attacked Darwin. The Prime Minister, Mr Curtin, stated, ‘We are Australians, and will fight grimly and victoriously.’

  On page 2: Australia refuses a British request to divert the 7th Division troops returning home to help defend Australia to save Rangoon in Burma.

  Australian Military Forces

  District Records Office

  RAS Showground, Sydney

  27 February 1942

  Mrs Joseph McAlpine

  Moura

  via Gibber’s Creek

  Dear Madam,

  I have been directed by the Minister for the Army to advise you that no definite information is at present available in regard to the whereabouts or circumstances of your husband, Captain Dr Joseph Alistair McAlpine, 8th Division headquarters AIF, and to convey to you the sincere sympathy of the Minister and the Military Board in your natural anxiety in the absence of news concerning him.

  You may rest assured, however, that the utmost endeavour will continue to be made through every possible source, including the International Red Cross Society. In the meantime it would be appreciated if you could forward full particulars to this office as quickly as possible of any information you receive from any other source, as it may be of the greatest value in supplementing or verifying the official investigation which is being made.

  Yours faithfully,

  (B.J. Smythe, Major)

  Officer in Charge of Records