by JH Fletcher
‘Still writing to him?’
‘Every week.’ Although there was no way of knowing whether the letters reached him. She couldn’t help wondering how the failed outbreak would affect Aussie prisoners, when the Japs got to hear about it.
Beth moved to a safer subject. ‘You coming to give a hand at the stall?’
The ladies had organised a stall at the club-rooms after Saturday’s game, to raise money for the footy team.
‘I’ll be there.’ Although she did not know what she could bring. In these days of rationing, it was so difficult to come up with anything to sell.
‘I’ll have a scrounge round, see what I can find.’
In fact she did better than that: a couple of bottles of home-preserved peaches, some fresh vegies from the garden, some baby clothes that Walter had outgrown. Kath was quite pleased with herself until she saw Mrs Williams’ contribution, which put the lot of them in the shade: the fruit and cake that they had envisaged, so greedily, three months earlier. And two packets of Chesterfield cigarettes. Her daughter Mary had discovered the Americans — or perhaps it was the other way round. Either way, there she was, escorted by a Yank, smiling up at him with her arm around his waist. People looked, and were polite and, in their politeness, said a lot. Gavin Quincey, home on leave, didn’t say much, but also looked. Not that Mary took any notice of that, eyes only for her Yank.
He was not alone. Several more soldiers had wandered down from the camp; it seemed that the barriers between Yank and Aussie were breaking down at last.
‘Did you bring your son with you today?’
Before she turned round, she knew who it was. She smiled up at him. ‘He’s playing with some of his friends on the swings and slides. With a bit of luck, I don’t think he’ll be bothering you today.’
‘It was no bother.’
‘You’ve come to watch the footy?’
‘I thought I’d give it a go. It sure beats staying in camp.’
‘Do you understand it?’
‘Not the first idea. But the object’s plain enough, I guess. You kick the ball between the uprights, right?’
‘Between the middle ones, if you can manage it. You get six points for that. If it goes between the other two, the shorter ones, it’s an outer and you only get one.’
‘And which team are you backing?’
‘The local side, of course.’
‘Are they winning?’
‘I’m afraid not. Don’t quote me, but we’re not very good this year.’
‘I daresay they do their best.’
‘It’s a bit of fun, anyway, whoever wins.’
The uncertainty she had felt previously was there no longer. On the contrary, she felt utterly at ease with him.
The game re-started; she explained one or two of the finer points to him. ‘Not that I’m much of an expert …’
‘I guess you know more than I do.’
About footy, perhaps. There were a lot of things she’d have liked to know but did not, unsure how to ask.
He made it easier for her. ‘I don’t know your name.’
She told him. ‘I don’t know yours, either.’
‘Jeth Douglas.’
She wasn’t sure she’d heard right. ‘Jeth?’
‘Short for Jethrow,’ he explained. ‘There have been Jethrows in the family as long as anyone can remember.’
‘Jeth,’ she repeated, more confidently now. ‘It suits you.’ An idiotic remark, if she’d ever heard one.
Again the grave smile, courteous but guarded, that she remembered from their previous meeting.
The game passed more quickly than Kath, who was not really much of a fan, had anticipated. It was overcast, another chilly afternoon, but she had her gaily-coloured new scarf to keep her warm. Among other things.
Jeth told her he came from a small town called Gainsborough, twenty-five miles outside Charleston — ‘South Carolina,’ he explained — and after the war hoped to become an architect. His father was a lawyer, who practised in a small office five minutes stroll from the family home.
‘A pretty tight community, I guess you could say.’
‘Sounds a bit like here.’
‘I guess country towns the world over are pretty much the same. That was why I went to the Kapunda market.’
She wasn’t sure she understood. ‘Because of the animals?’
‘Because it reminded me of home.’
She had a sudden insight into what it must be like for the Jeths of the world, ripped from home and family to take part in a war in countries thousands of miles away, from which so many would never return.
A pretty tight community, I guess you could say.
Hedley was in the same situation, she thought, although in his case it was, of course, far worse. A prisoner all those years …
As though he had heard her thoughts, Jeth asked, ‘Is your husband in the service?’
She smiled up at him with lips suddenly tight. ‘He’s a prisoner of war. He was captured in Singapore.’
He whistled, softly. ‘That’s tough. Ever hear from him?’
‘Now and then.’
‘Let’s hope he’s back home soon.’
‘I hope so.’
She could feel the pressure of eyes on her back, knew that people were taking note of Kath Warren chatting up the Yank. Once it would have bothered her, but now she didn’t care. Let them think what they liked. It was years since she had talked with a man of her own age, years during which she had not looked at another man at all. A chat at the footy: what could possibly be the harm in that?
There was a letter, quite different from the poor man’s card of the Red Cross. Kath turned it in her hands, frowning.
Mrs Katherine Warren
Tall Trees Farm
Via Hunter
She did not recognise the writing on the envelope.
Colonel Charles C Gruber
and the Officers of the
19th Ranger Battalion
United States Army,
request the pleasure of the company of
Mrs Katherine Warren …
The invitation fell from her hand before she had even read what she was being invited to attend.
Dear God.
Out of the question, of course. Somewhere deep inside her, a bolshie voice asked why? But she had no intention of listening to it. Accept an invitation to any function, most of all one given by Americans, and she would be a marked woman. Forever. No-one would ever forget it.
She could hear the comments now:
With Hedley a prisoner of war …
All she knows, he could be dead …
High-tailing off …
Shameful, that’s what it is.
Slut.
This was the town where she planned to live the rest of her life. And what about Hedley? What would he say, when he came back and heard about it?
Why should he hear?
But Kath knew her own town better than that. He would hear, all right; nothing was more certain.
She picked up the letter, went out of the house and stood on the back veranda, staring across the valley. From here you could see forever. Why, then, did she feel as though she, too, were a prisoner?
Prisoner of a society that would judge her, most harshly, for any deviation from its unspoken rules.
Prisoner of a child she would not permit to be damaged, of a man she hadn’t seen for almost three years.
Prisoner of her own conscience.
Yet what were they talking about? she demanded of the air, furiously. An invitation. To which a dozen, perhaps twenty, others would also have been invited. A chance to see new faces, meet new people. To have fun.
She stopped in mid-stride. Fun … The thought was a blow to her heart. She was twenty-two years old and had almost forgotten what fun was like. And now this invitation. All she had done was talk, briefly and in public, to a lonely young man from far away. What was wrong with that?
She could have wept. Again sh
e paced to and fro. She knew very well what was wrong with it. If she accepted the invitation, it would not be because it promised fun, new people, new faces. It would be because of one person, one face, that in her mind she could see, now, smiling gravely at her: Jethrow Douglas, of Gainsborough, South Carolina, of whom she knew so little that she had not even realised he was an officer.
I cannot …
Why not?
Because I want to, so much, and I’m scared what may happen if I do.
The phone was ringing. Welcoming the distraction, she ran to answer it.
‘You going?’
Beth. So she had one, too. Another married woman whose husband was so conveniently away. All of a sudden, she was angry. Not with Beth, but with this Colonel Charles C Gruber and the officers of the 19th US Ranger Battalion, who seemed to be pinning a target on every married woman in town.
Who the hell did these Yanks think they were? Indignation strengthened her resolve to do what was right. ‘I am most certainly not going.’
‘Oh.’ Disappointment, dull as ditch water, in Beth’s voice.
‘Doesn’t mean you can’t.’
‘I can’t go alone.’
Which was a thought. If they went together, it would put a different complexion on the evening.
Kath prevaricated. ‘Who else is going?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
‘Let’s find out.’
She phoned Enid Coogan, who told her that thirty invitations had been sent: to Peter Brewer, chairman of the local Council, and his wife Lil; to John Podgett, the Town Clerk. All the nobs. Stacks more, farmers and others. Even Charlie Todd from the store, who had done his bit for the war effort by overcharging whenever he thought he could get away with it. And needle-sharp Juniper Harris, who owned the clothes shop and walked hunch-shouldered as though checking the ground for sixpences.
‘She’ll be there, for sure,’ Enid said. Almost certainly she was right; Juniper had never been one to turn down a free invite.
And Beth and Kath, whose husbands were overseas.
There could be no possible danger in accepting, in company like that. It made it easier, yet still Kath hesitated, knowing her own thoughts. ‘I’ll have to think about it …’
In the end she decided to say yes; it would be too conspicuous, being the only one to refuse. She laughed, a little breathlessly. People might think she really didn’t want to go.
She rang Beth. ‘Don’t suppose it can do any harm …’
Beth was delighted. As was Kath, despite anxieties.
‘Let’s do it, then.’
Colonel Gruber: cropped hair, tight, hard body, axe-face smiling. But courteous, undeniably. He even bowed, a little pompously, to Beth’s evident delight. ‘Pleased you were able to make it …’
His voice was like his body, Kath thought: tight, hard, confident. They peeled off from the reception line, passed through a lobby into what was, apparently, the mess, although that was the last thing Kath would have called it.
‘Swank,’ Beth said, eyes round.
Silver. A buffet table, covered with a starched white cloth, immaculate. Flowers.
‘Where on earth did they get those?’
Flowers were not the only luxury.
‘Ma’am?’
Some kind of waiter in a starched jacket, high collar fit to choke, and trousers with a stripe down them, offered a tray. Upon it stood glasses of what looked suspiciously like wine.
‘There’s whiskey, if you prefer,’ the waiter said. ‘Only Bourbon, I’m afraid.’
They settled for white wine, chilled and delicious. ‘Only Bourbon,’ Beth repeated. ‘Golly, they’ll be having to carry Pete Brewer home.’
Not only Pete, perhaps.
Amid all the splendour, the Aussies huddled like sheep. The heavy hands of farmers clutched glasses from which their owners slugged hooch, greedily. Definitely not only Pete.
A sudden bevy of men, dressed in awe-inspiring smartness, white tunics, collars board-stiff, descended on the group, breaking it up.
Kath and Beth, sticking together for safety, were addressed by an older officer, who introduced himself as Major Grant. ‘A good name to have, in the US military,’ he told them, eyes twinkling. ‘Mind you, it gives you something to live up to.’ Kath had no idea what he was talking about.
Major Grant chatted easily about anything, about nothing, treating them with a formal gallantry that charmed, yet was quite safe. All three knew he was only going through the motions. For the first time Kath relaxed, answering the gently-probing questions of this man whose name she had already forgotten.
Yes, she had lived here all her life. No, she had never been to America. Yes, her husband was in the war. Sort of.
He looked at her. ‘Sort of?’
‘He’s a prisoner of war.’
‘I’m sorry. Where?’
‘I don’t know. He was captured when Singapore fell.’
He frowned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.
‘Just so long as you blokes make sure we win.’
‘We’ll do that, okay.’
Beth, who had always had a talent for speaking out of turn, said, ‘Sitting here, in Hunter?’
Kath caught her breath, but the major seemed unconcerned. ‘Even sitting here in Hunter we have a role to play, I assure you.’
‘But you won’t tell us what it is.’
‘Right.’
Kath’s glass was empty. The major beckoned; a waiter came with a tray. As she accepted a fresh glass, she saw Colonel Gruber crossing the floor towards them. He smiled, a tank with teeth.
‘Tom,’ he said in the major’s ear, ‘I wonder if we could have a word?’
The major turned to them. ‘I hope you’ll excuse me …’ And was gone.
‘That was rude.’ Kath was quite put out.
Beth was unrepentant. ‘It gets up my nose, all this la-dee-dah crap, when you think what my Charlie may be going through at the minute. Hedley, too,’ she added.
‘But that was the point of coming. To have fun.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t seem right, somehow.’
A voice spoke behind her. ‘I hoped you’d be here.’
Kath felt a stillness. She had not even looked out for him, knowing that sooner or later he would find her. She turned, smiled up at him.
‘How you going?’
‘All right.’ He looked at Beth. ‘We haven’t met. Jethrow Douglas.’ He stuck out his hand. Beth took it, a little awkwardly. Kath introduced her.
Jethrow nodded. ‘I hear your husband is also in the war.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Somewhere or other.’
He called over another officer, as tall and young-seeming as himself. ‘Clark Luther,’ he introduced. ‘From Illinois. But he can’t help that.’
Clark laughed. ‘With Southerners, you can always be sure of two things. Every time you meet them, you have to fight the Civil War all over again, and you can’t understand a word they say.’
‘Are you a Southerner?’ Beth asked.
Clark smiled. ‘Illinois’s about as far north as you can get. It’s almost in Canada.’
‘Some of us wish it was,’ Jeth said.
The food arrived, carried by a succession of waiters who arranged it on the long table.
‘Won’t you just look at that?’ Beth whispered. It was an awe-inspiring sight. Plates without number crammed with food, fish and beef, chicken and turkey, salads and apple pies the size of cartwheels, cake in dark, rich heaps.
‘You wouldn’t know there was a war on,’ Beth said. A comment that might have had two edges.
Jeth smiled easily. ‘We know, all right. You can bet your life on that.’
Other people were already tucking in. In one corner, Juniper, scrawny despite her greed, stood with a piled plate, her mouth moist with cake.
Jeth turned to Kath. ‘Shall we go get ourselves something?’ They left Beth with Clark Luther. As they worked their way aro
und the table, Kath was moved by a desire to justify her friend. ‘She didn’t mean to be rude …’
‘I didn’t think she was. We’re fighting men. Eating and fighting don’t seem to go together, I guess, but that’s the way the Army works.’
‘Eating makes you fat.’
‘Look around you,’ he told her. ‘See any fat guys here?’
Which was true.
There were chairs scattered about, to make eating easier. They found a corner. ‘Let’s grab this before someone else does.’
To begin with, they were too busy eating to talk but, at length, after Kath had put her plate on the floor at her feet, she found that she still had nothing much to say.
‘I’m stuffed.’ A valuable observation, if ever there was one.
‘I’m glad.’
Silence. She played with her half-empty glass. Her mind was blank, seemed determined, obstinately, to remain so. For God’s sake, think of something, she counselled herself furiously. He’ll think you’re half-witted.
In desperation she said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had much chance to see the country …’
‘That’s all we ever do see,’ he told her. ‘We’re out on training exercises almost all the time. We’d be out there now, only the Colonel decided it would be a good idea to put on something for you guys, get to know the locals, that sort of thing.’
‘I suppose that’s my cue to say thank you for having me,’ Kath said.
‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come.’
‘I nearly didn’t. If Beth hadn’t had an invite, too.’
‘That’s why I fixed it.’
Kath was uncomfortable. ‘I’m not sure I like the idea of you fixing things …’
Jeth was not about to back off. ‘I wanted the chance to talk to you some more. I could see how it might be difficult for you, so I wangled an invite for her as well. Better for you, better for me, better for her.’
It was true, but it made Kath question, more than ever, her wisdom in coming here, in laying herself open to this self-possessed, terrifyingly attractive man. Again she looked around at the roomful of people, the waiters with their trays of drinks, the long table with its bomb-bursts of food. As Beth had said, you would never have thought there was a war on.
Suddenly she understood how Beth had felt. She, too, was angry: with the smug room, the too-smart officers, the deliberate and doomed attempt to pretend that this was reality when they all knew it was not. Reality was pain and suffering and death. The peoples of Europe under the jackboot, England scythed by steel, the prisoners, the mothers and wives waiting, the bereaved parents and children, the embattled soldiers of all nations in Russia and Europe, Asia and the Middle East, on sea and land, the millions upon millions deprived of hope and peace, of life itself, in the name of the great god War. While here they were, feeding and drinking in a flower-decked room. She hated the wickedness that had unleashed such demons; she hated this room, these men and women enjoying themselves. Most of all, she hated herself for wishing so desperately that this was the truth, when she knew it was not; for longing, so greedily, for luxury and laughter, for this young man to go on looking at her with admiring eyes.
