Before the Storm

by Sean McMullen

  ‘Here is my next order for you, DanS2 and BarryS1,’ Emily concluded. ‘In the days ahead, when you find yourselves cut off from me or BC, you are to look out for any means to stop the bombing. It does not matter what it is, just do it.’

  Ten minutes later, Daniel and Barry were at North Brighton Station, waiting for a train with the station bicycle.

  ‘I do believe my sister has gone dippy,’ said Daniel unhappily.

  ‘Dunno,’ replied Barry. ‘Like if BC ’ad said all that, we’d be saying wot a good plan it was, and how brave and clever the cove is.’

  ‘Barry, my sister has a gun that can sink a battleship. A really big battleship. Now she says she wants to use it when parliament’s opening, just to frighten people.’

  ‘So? I’d be frightened.’

  ‘But don’t you understand? She’s a girl! Girls can’t shoot. Father says that every time women come to the archery range. Emmy exploded an area of seawater the size of a football field with that death beam and still missed the buoy she was aiming at. If she tried to shoot a tree with that thing, well, she might kill more people than the bombers mean to! You saw what it did at the beach. The war with Germany might start anyway.’

  ‘Nah, they’ll just say it was some daft baggage with a death ray, and …’

  ‘And?’ prompted Daniel.

  Barry scratched his head. ‘Yeah, well, maybe we do ’ave a problem.’

  Once again the two boys arrived in Acland Street in the late afternoon and began their investigations. This time they knew who they were looking for, but they had new problems. The problems started with Luker the Lurker catching Barry and demanding that he return the silver hip flask that he had stolen. Barry returned the flask. Moments later Luker and Barry were confronted by Constable Barrington, backed up by two police in uniform. Barrington demanded the return of the very same flask, and of course it was found in the possession of Luker. Luker immediately accused Barry of planting it on him. Barry’s defence was that he ’never done nothin’.’

  Daniel managed to avoid the exchange – merely by not looking like the sorts of people that Barrington thought were criminals. Leaving Barry to his own devices, Daniel decided to keep a lookout for the Germans, wait for Fox, and avoid anyone else who might know him. With Barry unlikely to be any help for some time, Daniel bought a coffee and sat at a vacant table. Seldom have I ever felt quite so alone, he thought. No friends, nobody I could die for.

  ‘Bonjour, chérie, may I join you at your table?’

  The speaker was female, and about the same age as Emily, but a lot more stylishly dressed. She had long, flame-red hair which she wore only partly pinned. The word ’wanton’ crossed Daniel’s mind. The word ’Muriel’ followed it very quickly.

  ‘I, er, yes, do sit down,’ said Daniel, wondering whether despair or exasperation would be the right emotion to feel.

  ‘Were you waiting for a girl, or perhaps an artist friend?’ asked Muriel.

  ‘An artist, his name is Fox. Neat hair, broad shoulders, never smiles, carries a sketch pad.’

  ‘I know him,’ gasped Muriel, her deliberate French accent almost faltering. ‘By him I am frightened. He sits in the cafés and sketches.’

  ‘He’s actually very shy and gentle.’

  ‘Oh is he? Is that not the way of the world? Someone who looks so fierce and dangerous is really a gentleman, yet someone as innocent looking as you could be a terrible murderer.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m just a schoolboy. My name is Daniel.’

  ‘Ah, and let me introduce myself. I am Michelle, and I come from Paris.’

  ‘Actually you’re Muriel Baker from Balaclava. Your mother runs an art supply shop in Carlisle Street; you go to school with my sister, Emily, and if I were you I would go easy on that French accent before someone from France hears you and starts laughing.’

  Daniel had not really intended to be quite so brutal, it was just that he treated everyone who was older than himself and female as a dangerous predator. The girl looked rather hunted for a moment, and began to glance about nervously.

  ‘Um, are you going to tell anyone?’ she asked, having satisfied herself that nobody else was within earshot.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ muttered Daniel. ‘I’m nervous enough about being seen here myself.’

  ‘Does Emily know?’

  ‘Yes. She sent me here.’

  Muriel’s eyes bulged. ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes. Emily is a sort of master criminal,’ explained Daniel with a feeling of malicious satisfaction. ‘She stays at home most of the time, and makes other people go out and do things for her – and get into trouble.’

  ‘My goodness! And here I was thinking that she was just a stuck-up, know-it-all prig.’

  ‘She’s that too,’ said Daniel.

  There was a pause as Muriel thought about everything that she had just learned about Emily and Daniel.

  ‘I’m very artistic,’ Muriel declared. ‘I don’t think Emily likes artists. In class she says that artists have loose morals.’

  ‘Well, I like artists and I don’t like Emily,’ replied Daniel, without realising that he had just responded to an invitation to become rather special to Muriel.

  Muriel smiled impishly, then squeezed Daniel’s hand for a moment.

  ‘I … I … I’m surprised your mother lets you come here,’ he stammered while trying to come to terms with the idea of a girl holding his hand, even though he was not lying mortally wounded after having been shot defending her.

  ‘Oh, Mother is very liberal. She closes the shop when I get home from school and we come here together on our bicycles. She models for art students in a studio not far from here. I sit in cafés and meet people. The Heidelberg School artists come here. Isn’t that exciting? A whole new style of Impressionist art named after somewhere in Melbourne.’

  Daniel had seen artists painting at the local beach, but that was Brighton, not Heidelberg. Rather than make a fool of himself, he decided to change the subject.

  ‘What does your father have to say about all this?’

  ‘He died of typhoid when I was little.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  The chasm between Daniel’s lifestyle and that of Muriel yawned wide and deep, suddenly robbing him of anything to say that was even halfway sensible. He did quite desperately want to say something sensible, because for the very first time a girl was taking an interest in him. Actually that was not entirely correct. Emily took an interest in him, in the same way as a wolf takes an interest in a lost chicken with clipped wings and a limp. Muriel’s interest was making his heart pound, raising his temperature, and putting a tremor in his hands. At last Muriel took the initiative.

  ‘I have only seen you here once before,’ she said, clasping her hands in front of her.

  ‘I’ve started coming here to meet my artist friend, Fox. He’s, er, also doing things for Emily.’

  ‘Oh. I wondered why other artists did not know him. I know lots of artists and writers. My mother takes me to Fasoli’s in Lonsdale Street sometimes.’

  ‘Fasoli’s?’

  ‘It’s a very bohemian café. I have met Norman and Lionel Lindsay, and Fred McCubbin, Mr Nerli, and there are even women like Katherine Mansfield and Ruby … I can’t remember her other name. Anyway, they are very, very clever people, and the talk is so inspiring. Mr Lindsay and Mr Nerli do pictures of orgies. Can you imagine that? They are people who are going to change the world.’

  I know some people who are going to change the world, too, thought Daniel. Thing is, they are going to use something a bit stronger than poems and paintings.

  ‘I want to be an artist, too,’ Muriel continued. ‘Mother supports the idea. She says that women are moving into all sorts of occupations where they could be better than men.’

  ‘They are?’

  ‘Yes. When we go to school, who does more art? Girls or boys?’

  ‘Girls, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes! And who are all the famous artists?�
�

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Men! Name me a single female artist.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘See? You can’t. More women do art than men, but then they are held back so that only men can be famous. I mean, you would pay my mother to model for you, but would you buy one of her paintings?’

  Daniel tried to persuade his imagination to picture Muriel’s mother with her clothes off. Daniel’s imagination retreated to a room deep inside his head, slammed the door, and refused to come out.

  ‘I, that is, wouldn’t have the money to buy a painting,’ he managed.

  ‘Well, you know what I mean. I could get modelling work any time that I wanted it, but I always refuse. I want to be an artist, and nothing else is good enough.’ Now she leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Do you know why I came over to you?’

  ‘I look harmless?’ ventured Daniel.

  ‘No, silly! You look young and fresh and exciting, unspoiled by all the notions that older men have got about girls not being able to do things.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you,’ replied the astounded Daniel.

  ‘There are so few boys who like art. I despise boys who think they are little gods because they are good at football or cricket.’

  ‘My sister just despises all boys, but she still uses them.’

  ‘Your sister really has old-fashioned ideas. Women are getting together and working for full equality with men. Did you know that? Girls like Emily should not send boys out to do things for them. They should go out and do things for themselves.’

  ‘Emily in here?’ laughed Daniel. ‘I would pay a shilling to see that.’

  Muriel squeezed his hand again. ‘You know, you talk like boys who are seventeen or eighteen.’

  ‘Is that good?’ Daniel asked, hoping that the matter of his real age would not be mentioned.

  ‘Oh yes, you’re suave and witty, just like the artists I know.’

  Daniel was again at a loss for words. Up until about five minutes ago he had been living the life of a little boy, yet all the while he had apparently looked and sounded like a man. Suddenly Daniel realised that the Germans had entered and sat down near the window. The experience of talking to a girl and even having his hand held had driven away all thoughts of serving king and country, saving parliament and changing the future. He leaned over the table.

  ‘Those people near the window, the five men talking loudly in German,’ Daniel whispered. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Yes. They buy paint at my mother’s shop. They’re a strange lot.’

  ‘Strange? Why?’

  ‘They buy equal amounts of all colours, including white.’

  ‘Why is that strange?’

  ‘White is used to lighten other colours; artists buy lots more white than anything else. Every week those men over there come along and buy two tubes of everything. They were there today, just when I came home from school. They never buy new brushes, either. Real artists are always spoiling or damaging brushes.’

  ‘Just like people pretending to be artists,’ concluded Daniel. ‘Somehow it’s obvious. Maybe too obvious. Muriel, how do they travel around?’

  ‘They have a big, black coach with shuttered windows.’

  Suddenly yet another piece of the puzzle fell into place for Daniel. The artists had eluded Barry by getting into a large coach. No artist travelled in a large coach, hidden from prying eyes by shutters, and Barry had a blind spot for large and expensive coaches unless one was threatening to run him down. Daniel knew that he was a long way from seeing the complete picture, however. If the Germans were pretending to be Germans, they were probably not real Germans. The Germans were also pretending to be artists but were probably not real artists, either. Pretending. The five men were being just a little too blatant about their act, almost as if they were pretending to be pretending. Look at them carefully, and they seem suspicious, thought Daniel. On the other hand, try to recall something about them, and you would remember only that they were Germans pretending to be artists. Something did not add up.

  Daniel glanced at Muriel. She was the daughter of a widowed Australian shopkeeper, but pretending to be a young artist from Paris. Why? Because it made her a little exotic, because people took her more seriously than they would if she were merely Australian. German artists. That was like Scottish chefs or French engineers. The idea left people shaking their heads rather than suspicious. Nobody would look too closely until there was a reason, like a major bombing. Nobody would look, unless they had been told to by someone from the future. The Germans all had bushy eyebrows, beards and bulbous noses, and were heavily built, while not actually fat. What was significant about this? It was as if they had all been disguised in the same way. If they were disguised, were they even Germans?

  Barry appeared at the door, clutching his bag as if he had very nearly lost it recently.

  ‘Do you know that boy in the doorway?’ Daniel asked urgently, fighting down the reflex to pull his hand away from Muriel’s.

  ‘Do I ever!’ she snorted. ‘He came into the shop last month and tried to have my mum stock some dirty postcards as “artistic supplies”.’

  Daniel suddenly decided that he had to protect Muriel from Barry. After all, she had been charming to him.

  ‘His name is Barry the Bag. He is bad company, but he is a friend of mine.’

  ‘Yes, I saw you with him last time,’ said Muriel. ‘You … are you in trouble with the police? I mean everyone who knows Barry seems to be in trouble with the police.’

  ‘One might say I’m in trouble,’ replied Daniel, half expecting that she would bound up and run before Barry reached the table.

  ‘Oh my, magical!’ breathed Muriel, squeezing Daniel’s hand again, her eyes shining.

  Daniel did not even try to guess what Barry might think when confronted by the sight of an older girl holding hands with him. Barry stopped before the table, blinked, then gave Muriel a suspicious glare and sat down.

  ‘So wot’s up, Danny Boy?’ he asked.

  ‘Barry, this is Muriel, she’s an artist. Muriel, meet Barry, he’s … actually don’t ask.’

  ‘We’ve met,’ said Muriel.

  ‘Danny Boy, wot ya doin’?’ pleaded Barry, glancing about nervously. ‘She only sells paint for her mum, she’s no artist.’

  ‘I’m more artistic than your crummy French postcards!’ snapped Muriel.

  ‘So, Barry, what happened with the constable?’ interjected Daniel.

  ‘Constable?’ whispered Muriel, again awe-struck.

  ‘Talked me way out, Dan Man. Barry the Bag ’as stuff for trade, ya know? Not sayin’ wot I traded, though, not with ’er listenin’. Wot’s the German story?’

  ‘Muriel told me something about them.’

  ‘Yeah? Wot?’

  Daniel suddenly noticed that the Germans were getting up to leave.

  ‘Hurry now, they’re going!’ he hissed to Barry. ‘Get the bike, go to the lane where we lost them the other day. Follow a big, black coach when it comes out. They will be in it.’

  ‘Danny Boy, artists can’t afford coaches like that.’

  ‘They are not artists, they’re probably not even Germans. Now hurry!’

  Daniel was actually out of the café before he realised that Muriel was still with him.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he hissed in alarm, pulling her back into a shop’s doorway.

  ‘This is so exciting, I want to help.’

  ‘It’s dangerous, too! We could get arrested, or even shot!’

  ‘Oh, really, truly?’ breathed Muriel, the glazed, dreamy look returning to her eyes.

  So, some girls actually like unsavoury, suspicious people, Daniel decided in amazement. Muriel had held his hand twice, and seemed fascinated by him. Now he had a protective arm around her shoulders. It had to be something about him specifically, because she had not shown any interest in Barry, and Barry was a lot more unsavoury and suspicious. Maybe she likes me, Daniel decided. I’
d die for a girl who likes me. She would be someone who could really appreciate it.

  The coach rumbled past as Daniel and Muriel stood in the shop’s doorway. It was very nearly out of sight by the time Barry had returned with the bicycle.

  ‘Where is it?’ panted Barry as he pulled up.

  ‘Probably turned off into Fitzroy Street by now!’ said Muriel, gazing into the distance with her hands on her hips.

  ‘I’ll catch ’em!’

  Barry soon vanished into the distance amid the cabs, horses and other bicycles.

  ‘So, um, what happens now?’ asked Muriel.

  ‘We do what Sherlock Holmes would have done,’ replied Daniel.

  Muriel followed Daniel into the laneway where the coach and its driver had been waiting for the Germans to return. Daniel now scandalised her by beginning to lift the lids off the garbage bins.

  ‘Don’t, they’re filthy!’ she cried. ‘You’ll get typhoid and die like my dad.’

  ‘I’ll wash my hands in the horse trough,’ said Daniel, making his way from bin to bin. ‘Aha, what’s this?’

  He lifted a neatly wrapped brown paper package from a bin by the string that bound it.

  ‘I … I wrapped that, this afternoon,’ said Muriel. ‘The Germans, it was for the Germans. I don’t understand. There’s a couple of guineas worth of paint in there. Why did they throw it away?’

  ‘So that in a week or so, when the police come to your mother’s shop, you will say that they bought paint and spoke like Germans.’

  ‘The police?’ gasped Muriel. ‘What have the Germans done?’

  ‘Nothing, yet. But they will.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  ‘Find Fox, then walk back to Balaclava Station and take a train home. I have to show this package to some people.’

  ‘Can I help? I’d love to help.’

  ‘What? Muriel! You don’t even know that I’m not a criminal.’

  ‘No, but I think you’re interesting. Well, nice, too. Too nice to be bad. Well, I mean if you are doing something bad, it must be for a good reason.’

  She likes me, thought Daniel. She likes me even though I could be a dangerous criminal.