To Love a Sunburnt Country

by Jackie French

Several of the familiar guards had left. They only realised it when two new ones appeared at roll call the next morning.

  ‘Not more than twelve years old,’ whispered Mrs Hughendorn to Nancy.

  The young guard’s bamboo rod slashed down, striking the old woman in the face. Blood dribbled down onto her neck, bare of pearls now, the folds of skin like patterns of lace.

  He is trying to show us he’s strong, not scared, thought Nancy. The other guards hadn’t struck them for months, longer perhaps, and never as deeply as this. There had almost been the feeling in the past year that they were all stranded here together, guards and prisoners both.

  Mr Shigura stepped towards the boy, said something softly in Japanese. The young man stood stiffly. He gave the translator a short sharp bow.

  Mr Shigura nodded to the women. ‘You may go.’

  The women straightened. Nancy glanced towards the guards’ quarters. The food bin hadn’t come out at all twice in the last week. She hoped it would come today.

  At least there would be hibiscus buds and the wild greens. There were fewer ‘island rabbits’ now, in the hot lead-up to the wet, as though they were waiting like everything else to breed.

  She bowed to Mr Shigura. ‘May I go to pick the buds now?’

  He nodded, said something to the young guard. The boy followed her out of the gate and sat by a tree with his rifle in his arms while she picked.

  Only a few cupsful today, and half of that went to the guards. Not enough to fill their bellies, nor substantial enough to live on. Please, she thought, let there be sago or cassava today. Let there be a packet of dried fish from the villagers …

  But there was none. The islanders too must be hungry, she thought, in this barren time, their gardens stunted and shrivelled, waiting for rain. At home the hens had often gone off the lay in mid-summer. She supposed they did the same here.

  The once-moist soil near the beach was too dry for greens too. She found a handful; didn’t dare pick too much in case there wasn’t enough of the plant left to regrow when rain finally came. Let it be soon, she thought. I don’t mind being wet. Just give us rain soon, so there are buds, and cassava in the gardens …

  Time to go back. There was no more food to find, and anyway, her legs felt like marshmallow and her head swam. You need food to find food, she thought vaguely.

  She looked for the young guard, expecting him to have followed her. He still sat under the tree. At first she thought he was asleep, perhaps had even fainted.

  Then she realised he was crying long silent sobs that shook his body. She looked at him for a minute, at his face turned from her in shame. He cannot cry in the camp, she thought, not with the other men to see him. It must be here, with only me to see his distress. A girl. A prisoner with no honour. A person who doesn’t count.

  He was a guard, a bully who had struck Mrs Hughendorn across the face and made her bleed. It was a cut that would take weeks to heal in their starved state; it might not even heal at all, or it might become infected. Would leave her with a scar, perhaps, even if it did heal, if the war did ever end, if they ever left this place for another where things like facial scars might matter …

  He was a boy, away from home, who cried.

  She knelt by him, slowly, waiting for him to strike her. He didn’t. She put her hand on his arm, and then her arm around his shoulders.

  He didn’t look at her. He leant into her shoulder, like Gavin might, sobbing. At last he quietened. She felt him pull away and stand, quickly, before he had to meet her eyes. She turned and pretended to pick another hibiscus bud, then, still slowly, moved towards the gate.

  This time she heard his steps behind her.

  They have sent boys to war, she thought. Did it mean that Japan was desperate, even retreating from the land it held? Or were all nations in this war desperate now? Did boys from Australia, England, America, face the enemy?

  She didn’t know. And that, she thought, is the hardest thing of all. Starvation not just of the body, but also of the mind.

  Chapter 48

  Flinty Mack

  Rock Farm

  Rocky Valley

  4 November 1944

  Matilda Thompson

  Drinkwater Station

  via Gibber’s Creek

  Dear Matilda,

  I hope the dry isn’t affecting you too much. Sandy has the syphon going from the creek, but we are down to an hour’s watering a day, or rather night. Sandy gets up at two am and turns the water on the potatoes. The creek has dried up entirely down the other end of the valley so despite the slope we are putting in all we can up here. It will be corn next, as much as we can manage.

  George Green is working out well. I think he has been surprised at how much he enjoys being up here and his grandparents enjoy having him at home. He’s been giving lessons in chemistry and physics and electronics at the school on Friday afternoons, which is a great success, and he has joined the bushfire brigade.

  But I must tell you something. It is so funny. You know all his talk about the ‘Jewish conspiracy’? Well, he tried that on Mutti Green and she fixed him with her eye — Mutti is good at that — and said, ‘Your great-grandfather, the rabbi, would die of shame to hear you talk that way.’ Her mother was Jewish! Anyhow, it has knocked the wind out of his sails a bit, but on the other hand he is chuffed because he was able to fix the pump on the fire truck when no one else could. He is talking about setting up a steel-fabricating works after the war, making prefabricated sheds. I must say I can’t see how that would work — aren’t all sheds prefabricated before you put them up? But Sandy says he may be onto something.

  Do give my special love to Blue, and hug her for me? I know you will anyway. I do wish she was closer, but then I’d probably fuss and drive her mad, bringing over apple pies and generally reminding her of Joseph when she doesn’t need reminding, just getting on with work and life the best she can. But I still worry.

  Do give my very best to Jim and Michael when you write to them. Sandy sends his best too.

  Love from us all,

  Flinty

  DRINKWATER, 20 NOVEMBER 1944

  MATILDA

  She knew when she saw the mail cart drop him off at the front gate, knew as her son walked down the drive carrying his suitcase, instead of staying safe at school in the Blue Mountains. Two more weeks of school, she thought. Couldn’t he at least have finished his last two weeks of school?

  If only Tommy had been home. If only Michael had gone to the factory first, then they could have both come home together. She could have smiled easily then, with Tommy at her side …

  She had to smile now. She stepped onto the veranda, the smile in place, made herself say, ‘Hello! Shouldn’t you be at school?’

  He stepped up beside her, bent to kiss her cheek. He had stopped doing that in public when he was twelve; began again at fourteen. She’d asked him, ‘Why?’ and he’d said gruffly, ‘I’m bigger than them now.’

  Yes, he was tall, this clear-eyed son.

  He straightened, then hugged her, after the kiss. ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got my Leaving Certificate all right and it’s in my case. They coughed up for it early.’

  ‘Come inside. You must be parched.’

  ‘It’s dry all right.’

  He plonked his case down in the hall and followed her to the kitchen. It was empty, thank goodness, Mrs Mutton at her afternoons at the factory. She took a jug of cordial from the Coolgardie safe — petrol was too valuable to use the generator now, except for shearing, and kerosene almost impossible to get — poured him a glass and reached for the cake tin.

  ‘Any chance of a sandwich? I’m starving. Had nothing since leaving Sydney last night. They don’t run the buffet car any more.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Cold meat, bread, chutney. She buttered great slabs, piled on meat, watched him sink his teeth into them. She noticed the chipped tooth he’d got playing football when he was fifteen …

  He demolished the third sandwich.
‘I’ve enlisted.’

  ‘I guessed. Militia?’ Please, she thought, let it be the AIF. Let him stay safe in Australia for three more years. He can do his bit in the AIF …

  ‘Yes.’

  Matilda looked at him, her clear-eyed son. He took her hand. When had his hands grown so large? But they had always been big, she remembered, even that first day as a baby, eyes glaring towards her voice as though demanding where he was and what this world was like.

  ‘Mum, listen. I’m not going to die. You understand?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m not going to die. And Nancy hasn’t died either. She’s alive. We’re coming back here. Both of us, when the war is won.’

  ‘Michael … you’re not going to find her. You know that, don’t you?’

  He almost laughed. ‘Mum, what do you take me for?’

  Eighteen, she thought. Eighteen and a man. I never realised …

  ‘I expect they’ll send us to New Guinea. Doesn’t matter. Whatever is needed.’ He met her eyes. ‘All right, I’m doing this for Nancy too. The sooner the war is ended, the sooner she’ll be home. The sooner we get the Japs, the sooner you’ll be safe, and every other woman —’ He stopped, as if he’d said too much.

  ‘If they invade, we’ll stop them.’

  He grinned. He was the baby, the little boy, as well as the young man. ‘With bayonets made out of brooms and carving knives, like in The People’s Manual?’

  ‘With the guns your great-great-grandfather left in the back room,’ she said. ‘We could arm half of Australia with what’s in there. Though half of them might blow up if anyone tried to fire them.’

  ‘It won’t come to that.’

  And for the first time she knew with certainty, no, it won’t.

  Chapter 49

  Matilda Thompson

  Drinkwater Station

  via Gibber’s Creek

  21 November 1944

  Jim Thompson

  c/- Australian Infantry Force

  New Guinea

  Dear Jim,

  All is well here, dry but I’ve known it worse. That sounds cheery, doesn’t it? But truly, we do very well: the windmills are going at full bore and your dad is a wizard at keeping the pumps going. I took a photograph of him yesterday in his ratty paddock hat, covered in grease. I felt like sending it to The Sydney Morning Herald — ‘Industrialist Mr Thomas Thompson at Work’.

  I’m mostly writing to let you know that Michael has joined up. I’m sure he’ll write to you himself and he may already have done so, but I wanted to tell you in case his letter hasn’t reached you yet. He is hoping to be sent to New Guinea after basic training, which I gather is pretty basic indeed these days. So if you see a bloke with feet the size of Belgium and a look of your father about him, it’s your younger brother, now grown up.

  There isn’t much other news. The Clancys received another postcard from Ben yesterday, a Red Cross one that just said, ‘I am well and thinking of you.’ But at least they know that he is safe for the duration of the war. No, that is not your mother fussing that you are up there facing the enemy. I am proud of you, and you know I am, and I would not have it any other way. Besides, I’d worry about you just as much if you were in Sydney. You might get run over by a tram. Unpredictable things, trams.

  Hope the socks enclosed fit you. I know they are a bit wobbly at the heel, but I’m sure that after you’ve worn them for a few days they’ll fall into shape.

  Speaking of falling into shape, I’d better go out and show the Land Girls how to dag a sheep. Or rather, 1,492 of them. I know the girls signed up for whatever work was going, but I have a feeling they hadn’t thought of 1,492 maggoty sheep bums. They are grand girls, only one a whinger. They’ve taken over the shearers’ quarters — they’ll move into tents when shearing comes around — can’t see the shearers giving up their beds for the ladies. Your father is enjoying having them here very much indeed, especially the display of undies on the line every Sunday, and their singsongs at night. Though I doubt they’ll feel like a singsong tonight. ‘Click Go the Shears’ it won’t be.

  Your father sends his love, and may even get round to putting pen to paper one of these weeks. You know your father.

  All love from me, always,

  Mum xxxxxx

  DRINKWATER, 2 DECEMBER 1944

  MAH

  There are certain benefits to having a husband so much older than you, thought Marjory McAlpine, as she slid the roast into the oven, then wiped away the sweat. One was that her husband was too old to go to war, even if he still had nightmares from the last one.

  And Andy treated her like a princess. Other men might spend their pay on beer and cigarettes. Andy had given up the grog, except when someone shouted him a pint, and he’d never smoked. He bought her something special with every Christmas bonus, from the emerald brooch to the radiogram or the electric fan that blew hot air from the kitchen table. No one else in Gibber’s Creek had an electric fan, though she hadn’t been able to use it since the petrol rationing.

  Mah looked at her kitchen with satisfaction. All her life she’d dreamt of a kitchen like this — plain blue-painted walls, blue and white cupboards, lino all blue and white flowers. Lace curtains at the window, a wood stove and a gas one, though there’d been no gas for it, or the gas refrigerator or steam iron, since the war.

  But it was a room that said plenty of money, from Andy’s wages and bonuses as the manager of Drinkwater and from her own income from her half-share in the biscuit factory.

  Plenty of food, even with rationing — meat from Drinkwater sheep and cattle, hens’ eggs, milk, cream and butter from the cows, vegetables and fruit from the gardens. With sugar now rationed, she used pumpkin to sweeten the cakes, or even stewed prunes. The one thing she really missed was tea. Six cups a day, strong enough to bend the spoon, a habit she’d got into in service as a kitchen maid, when only tea got you through the early rising, sweeping, water-carrying until breakfast, and on through the cycle of the day when tea kept you bright till late at night.

  It was a long way from orphanage bread and scrape or eating on the back steps because Cook didn’t want to eat with a ‘heathen Chinee’ girl. Let Gertrude keep her movie stardom. Mah had the Drinkwater stars at night, and a husband warm in her bed, and the kids to cuddle when they jumped into bed with them each morning.

  Mah looked at her wristwatch — a birthday gift from Andy. An hour to put her feet up and go through the accounts before she had to pick up the kids from Blue.

  She stopped as an engine put-putted down the road from the main house driveway. Not a tractor engine, nor the station generator, rarely used now with petrol shortages. Even Andy’s precious Model-T was up on blocks for the duration. Thank goodness Matilda had kept the horses.

  She peered between the curtains as the engine stopped. A motorbike and uniformed dispatch rider — you saw them sometimes on the way to the factory, where men worked on something never mentioned that Tommy had invented, but which everyone suspected must be an improved version of the wirelesses he had been working on for twenty years. But this rider had a passenger who was now stepping off the bike — young, tall, fair-haired, in the blue uniform of a wounded soldier. He sketched a half-salute to the rider. The bike puttered back up past the house.

  She moved through the house, her hall with its Persian runner, its painting of the mountains, the bookcase with Andy’s sister’s books, and opened the front door just as the soldier limped up onto the veranda. He used a cane, and when he took off his hat she saw the red scar in place of his little finger.

  ‘Mrs McAlpine?’

  ‘Yes? Can I help you? Please, come in out of the heat.’ Impossible to say otherwise to a man in uniform, especially one who had been wounded.

  ‘Thanks.’ He stepped inside. ‘It’s hot enough to melt a dog out there. My name’s Thornton. Private Bert Thornton.’

  She led the way into her living room — blue-and-red Persian rug, dark leather sofa and chairs, the big gol
d-and-white pot with Souvenir of Gundagai written on it that Blue had given her as a joke when she and Andy got married (the joke being that neither of them had ever been to Gundagai) that had lost its tackiness when she’d filled it with tall fronds of dried pampas grass.

  ‘Tea? Or a cool drink? Or both?’

  ‘A cool drink would be bonzer.’ He sat, looking like he needed to.

  The tank-water was cold. She added a slice of lemon and a sprig of mint to two tall glasses, filled the jug, placed slices of pumpkin cake and apple tarts on the flowered plate, along with cake forks, and carried the tray into the living room. He took the glass gratefully, downed the lot, then nodded when she offered him more.

  ‘Bonzer,’ he said again, then, ‘Ta,’ as she handed him a plate with both cake and apple tart on it. He used the cake fork properly, she noticed. Some mother had taught this boy well.

  She sat back and tried to calm her heart. She knew why he was here. Only one reason why a soldier — especially a wounded one — might be at her door, asking for her, not Andy. But she still repeated, ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Mrs McAlpine, you’re Fred Smith’s sister, ain’t you?’

  ‘Yes. You knew him?’ Of course he knew him. This was what men did, visited the next of kin after their friends had died. She’d known that as the men came back there’d be a visit one day, ever since the local padre had arrived with the telegram, one sheet of yellow paper, to say her brother was no more.

  ‘Yeah. Not for long. About four months. Long months, but.’

  She tried to find words, one word. None came. She nodded.

  ‘He saved my life.’

  She had expected that too. A letter from his commanding officer said that Fred — or rather Robert Malloy, for it seemed the authorities had found out about the deception — had been recommended for the Distinguished Conduct Medal.

  ‘I’m glad. That your life was saved, I mean.’ The words were meaningless, polite. She did not know this boy; barely knew her brother, only the early desperate years in the orphanage until they were chucked out at the age of twelve and from that one year together with the circus, before he’d run off again. What difference did his removal from her life mean, beyond the loss of a postcard every few months, each bearing a different postmark, and signed off with a different name. I’m enjoying the apple picking. Your affectionate Uncle Perce.