Fire in Summer

by JH Fletcher

  They had a cup of tea at the kitchen table. Mrs Schulz was out, gone to the same CWA meeting that had claimed Hedley’s mother. They said nothing about being pleased to see each other; said very little at all; but sat and drank tea, grinning awkwardly. Strangers, indeed. And he had been gone less than a day.

  Kath carried the cups to the sink.

  Hedley said, ‘Might give your Dad a hand.’

  Who would be reaping, like the rest.

  ‘You’re all dressed up,’ Kath objected.

  ‘Got my gear in the car.’

  ‘What about tonight? Going to stay over?’

  ‘If that’s okay.’

  She nodded casually, busy with the cups. ‘Course.’

  You wouldn’t reckon we were married at all, Kath told herself.

  Hedley went out to the car, came back with shorts, boots and hat.

  ‘He’s up at Daley’s Paddock,’ Kath told him.

  The sun was hot on Hedley’s bare back as he walked up the dirt road. He didn’t care; it was good to feel the summer air, smell the dust, see the tawny paddocks, strips pale as bone where the reaping was finished. He reached the gate into Daley’s, which creaked as he opened it. Beneath his feet stubble crackled. He picked up a clod of dry earth, crumbling it between his fingers. He watched the soil patter dustily on his boots. The feeling it gave him was more intense than anything he had known with his wife.

  The men were working the far side of the paddock, tiny shapes shrouded in dust. The faint clank of machinery came to him. They were working along the eastern boundary, by the red-dust road leading down to Henschke’s place.

  For the moment he made no move to join them. He’d thought he’d put all this behind him when he’d caught the train to Adelaide. Now he was back and the emotion of seeing and standing upon what would one day be his land filled him almost to choking. He remembered how he had shot a fox over there by the pile of weathered rocks that marked the spot where the road turned. Beyond it stood the trees where the owls lived. He knew every inch of this country, seemed sometimes to be linked to it more closely than to his own flesh and blood. He turned, looking across the valley below him.

  The land descended in folds to the valley floor before climbing again to the crest beyond. The main road was down there, but hidden, as was the town. All he could see was the land, rich and enduring, snipped by the sagging lines of fences. Overhead, upon the golden arch of air, a hawk hovered on quivering wings.

  Hedley breathed the dust, the heat, feeling once again his sombre passion for the earth, his determination, rock-hard, to gather to himself as much of it as he could.

  He turned, putting dreams behind him. By the fence a blade of wheat had been missed in the reaping. He pulled off the head and rubbed it free of the husk, chewing the sweet grains one after the other as he walked down the slope to join the others.

  That night, Kath lay with her husband in the narrow bed. She waited while he inspected the white flesh that she had thought to keep to herself for weeks or maybe months. Again he drew the scent of her body into his nostrils. He buried his face in her firmness, kissing and touching, came at length to lie berthed between her thighs.

  She smiled up at him. ‘Wasn’t expecting anything like this tonight.’

  ‘Damn well hope not.’

  He laughed and moved a little, in and out, in and out, while she continued to watch him. She felt the tumult of her blood rising, the storm gathering, until at last it blew her away.

  At least we managed to sort that out, she thought. Up to a point, anyway; never once had she lost her awareness of herself as a separate person, which was how she had always imagined things would be.

  The merging of self … Maybe not everyone felt that.

  Throughout, she watched him, seeing reflected in his eyes not her face alone but behind it, most powerfully, the sun-bright valley, the paddocks of wheat and barley swept into sinuous waves by the wind, the crumbling clods of soil between his fingers, the glitter of hawk’s wings, hovering.

  The next day he got up, dressed, and left to catch the train to Adelaide.

  Hedley spent moron months doing handstands at the idiot whim of officers and NCOs who seemed to derive pleasure from stupidity. At the end of it, he copped some leave. Went home, walked paddocks already seeded, now the rain had come, slept with his own wife in his own bed, the next day did the same thing again.

  The army and the future threw a huge shadow over them, but they never talked about it. No point, really.

  Only once did Hedley say anything, knowing he should have kept his lip buttoned. ‘They say we’re going overseas.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  Did not tell her that, as a farmer’s son, he could have got out of it, if he’d wanted. Had decided to go, anyway. See the world at the army’s expense. Why not?

  They’d given him a week. When it was over, Kath once again drove him to the station. Where they looked at each other.

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Yeah.’

  He kissed her; she responded. They had worked things out physically; that, at least. He tweaked her, grinning.

  ‘Don’t!’ She rubbed herself, surreptitiously, glancing up and down the platform.

  ‘Something to remember me by.’ Still grinning.

  He climbed aboard, turned to look back at her through the open window.

  ‘Look after yourself,’ said Kath.

  He nodded. The train lurched.

  ‘See ya.’

  She was gone.

  Buses took them to Port Adelaide. They queued to climb the steeply-sloping gangplank. The quay was crowded as they pulled out. Kath had offered to come but Hedley had said no. What was the point?

  Heading into the Gulf, men offered bets on their destination. England, South Africa, the Middle East, Singapore. Anywhere was possible.

  Hedley took a punt on the Middle East. They headed across the Bight to Fremantle where they stayed two days before continuing, not west across the Indian Ocean, but north. Hedley had lost his money. The betting now was on Darwin or Java but, in the middle of June, they arrived in Singapore.

  They had a few days to wander around the city. Raffles Hotel, icing-white in the tropical sun, twin rows of traveller palms lining the driveway, had a sign in front of the entrance:

  OFFICERS ONLY.

  Thanks very much, Hedley thought.

  The sign, and others like it, the large numbers of troops gawping through the crowded streets, were almost the only signs there was a war at all. European and Chinese civilians went about their daily routine, no-one seeming to believe in the Japanese menace from which the troops had come to protect them. There were games of cricket on the padang, a church parade, all brass and bullshit, at the Anglican cathedral off Bras Basah Road. The days slid past in an aura of unreality.

  One evening, looking for something to do that would not involve the spending of money they did not possess, Hedley and a couple of mates, Tom and Rex, from Victoria, explored a side street near the Singapore River. The river stank like the sewer it was. On bad days they said you could do a Jesus: walk on it. Between the tenements, poles of washing projecting like banners across the street, they caught the occasional glimpse of water, of high-prowed prahus and sampans crowded together amid the glare of kerosene lanterns. Curious eyes watched them as they walked down the middle of the litter-choked lane.

  They came to a court off the main street and turned into it. The look of the people had changed; these were Malays rather than Chinese, and the food stalls in front of the buildings smelt of spice.

  In the centre of the court, a small stage of bamboo slats was surmounted by a screen of white cloth stretched between uprights. A small crowd of sarong-clad spectators, men, women and children, had gathered in front of the stage. In the darkness Hedley caught the gleam of lantern light upon eyes and lips as the audience turned their heads to look at the newcomers.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Rex muttered nervously
. ‘They don’t want us.’

  But Hedley thought these people were curious, not hostile, and wanted to find out what was going on. ‘Hang on a bit.’

  They waited. A few minutes passed; then, without warning, the cloth screen was illuminated from the rear. Out of the darkness came the squeal of a pipe, a drum’s muffled throb, and the audience stirred as though a wind had passed over it. A harsh, shrill voice began what sounded like a chant. It went on and on, while the audience waited motionless, even their breath snagged upon the hot air.

  The screen flickered. Upon its blank surface appeared a succession of shadows, the figures of humans and demons, gods and monsters. They leapt and cavorted, fought each other, fled and returned, their actions punctuated by the persistent silvery note of a gong. In the background pipe and drum wove their trance-like spell and the harsh, high voice recited what was presumably the explanation of what was happening.

  It was extraordinary. Hedley found himself as entranced as the crowd about him who, obviously familiar with the story, followed the unfolding drama with sighs and laughter and, when the demons appeared, hisses of rage and — yes — fear.

  He had never seen anything like it; it stirred his imagination, made his presence in this strange land, so far from home, even more incredible than before.

  Any minute and I’ll wake up, he thought. To paddock and scrub, the purple outline of the ranges against the sky, the warmth and flesh that is Kath. My wife. At that moment, eyes dazzled by the cavorting shadows, ears filled with the drum’s persistent beat, he found it hard to tell which was the real world and which was not.

  A breath of wind came from the river. The screen swayed and the characters of the shadow world swelled momentarily. Again the audience sighed, eyes intent, imaginations in thrall to the beating drum, the hypnotic rise and fall of the puppet master’s voice.

  Hedley watched for almost an hour until he yielded to the impatience of the mates.

  ‘We’re not back in camp by midnight, they’ll have us in the guardroom,’ Tom warned.

  He was right. Hedley allowed himself to be drawn away. The audience, rapt as ever, did not notice their going.

  By the following morning, his journey into the alien world of shadows had become a fantasy as unreal as the play itself. Even the audience had become a figment of enchantment, yet what he had seen had been no more fantastic than the conduct of their daily lives, the obstinate refusal of military and civilians alike to acknowledge the war’s reality.

  The magic lingered. Hedley thought he might go back to the court near the river, if he could find it, reopen the window upon a world whose existence he had not suspected.

  He did not. The next day all leave was cancelled. Two days later they climbed into trucks and were driven north across the Causeway into Malaya.

  4

  WILF

  1941

  Hedley’s younger brother Wilf had never seen any percentage in busting his gut when he knew he was never going to inherit the farm, anyway. He wouldn’t have minded that so much — everyone knew that land went to the firstborn — if the Old Man hadn’t made it so darned obvious that he thought his second son was a waste of space.

  ‘Think, Wilf. Think! What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Heavens above, boy, don’t you know anything?’

  Hedley, the Old Man’s clone in this and all else, was even worse, and mean with it. ‘You’re useless, Wilf.’ Grinned, gloating. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely useless!

  ‘Better get hold of a sheila with a fortune, why don’t you? Needn’t think you’re going to bludge off me when the Old Man kicks the bucket.

  ‘Sit on your arse, that’s the way. Stick to what you’re good at.’

  Easy to oblige, if that was how they felt about him.

  One day, mooching as always, he overheard his parents talking. He listened, hoping to hear something nice. Fat chance.

  ‘He’s still a kid.’ At least his mother stood up for him. ‘You can’t expect a man’s work out of a fourteen-year-old.’

  He might have known the Old Man wouldn’t be interested in her opinion. ‘Don’t see why not. Plenty of others manage it.’

  Wilf went out, chucked a rock at a dog that got under his feet.

  ‘I’ll tell Dad …’

  He’d known for years that Hedley could see around corners. ‘Go ahead.’ Knowing he would anyway. ‘See if I care.’

  It earned him a leathering.

  ‘I won’t have you ill-treating the animals!’ The strap cracked, hard enough to raise a welt. And again, while Wilf turned his face to stone. He was good at that. Why not? He’d had plenty of practice.

  He eavesdropped again.

  ‘Dunno what’s going to happen to that kid …’ The disappointment in the Old Man’s voice was harder to take than the strap.

  He did then what he always did: shoved off with his mates, who didn’t care either. People shook their heads, said they were a bunch of rubbish. They were proud of their reputation, hoped they deserved it. Not that they ever did much.

  A few fist-fights, some swearing, stories about girls, about what they’d done to them, what they would do: most of it bullshit. They got hold of some photos, passed them around furtively, pricks like iron.

  One time they clubbed together, bought some home-brew from an old bloke lived in a tin shack up in the ranges. They swilled it down, passing the bottle from hand to hand around a fire they’d lit in the scrub. Afterwards, drunk as skunks, they threw up, woke the next day with heads banging like the hammers of hell.

  They pinched the occasional packet of fags from Charlie Todd’s store until he threatened to get the cops on them.

  One day Wilf thought he’d branch out on his own. There was an Abo girl come to live in a hut near Foster’s Corner. Some of his mates reckoned she’d shown them a thing or two, which might have been true. A week after his fifteenth birthday, Wilf decided to check her out for himself.

  His mates had said she expected you to give her a bottle of beer, so he pinched one out of the cellar and wandered off across the paddocks, Mr Innocent on the prowl.

  He’d been having that sort of dream for two years now. Jumbled images of white flesh and come-on smiles, excitement throbbing, release wet and sudden, like a dam bursting. The photos had shown him what to expect but he’d never seen a real woman with her clothes off. Maybe now was the time to change that.

  As his mates had said, the boong was living in a stone hut that once, long ago, had been used by shepherds. It had been empty for years, half its roof fallen in. Would be empty again when the locals cottoned on to what she was doing.

  She was waiting, all right, like they had an arrangement. She sat outside the hut, long legs stretched out on the grass, watching as Wilf climbed the hill towards her.

  He was scared stiff, might have done a runner, but didn’t have the nerve now she’d spotted him.

  He reached the hut. She was scrawny, not much older than he was, big eyes, a brooding, abo’s face. She was wearing a rag of a dress, ripped here and there, showing a hint of dark flesh through the gaps.

  He stood while she looked up at him, unmoving. He offered her the beer, silently. Her face remained expressionless but she stood, took the bottle and his hand, led him into the hut.

  Three things he remembered.

  She pulled off the torn dress, casually, and he saw a naked woman for the first time. She was as he’d expected, as he’d seen in the photos, but different because black, with a ceremonial pattern of scars on her shoulder.

  The second thing was the smell, strange and dark and somehow exciting. He didn’t know whether it was because she was aboriginal or because she was a woman.

  Finally, there was a sense of shame. Not because of what he had attempted to do, not because she was black, but because he made a mess of it. He saw her, touched her skin as silky as soap, and straightaway was tight to bursting. She drew him down, spread the long legs, and he came at once, before he’d touched her.

  Oh
God!

  He couldn’t wait to get away. Later bragged manfully to his mates, telling them how she’d clung to him, had not wanted him to go. In truth, they had not exchanged a word; he did not even know if she could speak. He did not know her name or anything about her. A month later, greatly daring, he revisited the hut. Found it empty. He never saw her again.

  The word got around. Some time later Wilf went to a dance at the hall. Met Dulcie Sweet, who had a reputation herself. She wandered up to him, sly-eyed, smiling. ‘Hear you fancy chocolate pudding …’

  He thought he might be in with a chance, decided to have a go. ‘Not only chocolate,’ he said, giving her the eye.

  ‘That right?’

  She said no more at the time but, the following week, let him take her to the pictures. Afterwards she found somewhere quiet and soon sorted him out.

  ‘My God, Duke! …’

  ‘Bit of practice, that’s what you need.’ She took hold, worked him gently, firmly.

  ‘What you doing?’ Horrified, yet hopeful.

  ‘No time like the present.’

  And swallowed him up, slick as grease. Afterwards, he felt like he’d been dumped in a thrashing box.

  ‘No more blackbirds,’ she warned him.

  ‘Never,’ he promised fervently.

  And kept his word, at least for a while.

  Out of the blue, Hedley was married. The next thing he’d pissed off to the army.

  ‘I’m relying on you,’ the Old Man said.

  Wilf knew he had to be joking but, when he looked, saw he was not. Which made for a change.

  He doesn’t think I can hack it, he thought. Made up his mind to prove him wrong. The next day, very early by his standards, he went to work.

  5

  HEDLEY

  1942

  Hedley and the mates were posted to a machine gun regiment guarding an airstrip outside a small, arcaded town called Gemas. The regiment was understrength, which was lucky because they had no machine guns. These were supposed to be on the way, not that it mattered, because there were no planes, either. These, too, they were told, were on the way.