John Marsden - Tomorrow 1

by When The War Began

  Corrie, grim-faced, went past me with a mop and a handful of rags. I’d noticed when I’d stayed with Corrie that if things got too emotional she’d start cleaning up. It was a useful habit she had.

  We had another quick conference. There seemed to be so many problems and so many choices. Robyn had the bright idea that bicycles were quick and silent – the perfect transport. Kevin had two little brothers, so we scored three bikes from their shed. Homer asked if we knew anyone who wouldn’t have gone to the Show; he’d realised that finding someone who’d stayed home that day might be the solution to the whole mystery. Lee said he didn’t think his parents would have gone: his sisters and brothers usually went, but not his parents. Kevin said he wanted to bring the corgi, Flip, along with us. He couldn’t bear to leave her alone again after what she’d been through.

  This was a tough one. We all felt sympathetic to the dog, who seemed to be attached to Kevin’s heels by a metre of invisible lead, but we were starting to get more and more conscious of our own safety. We finally agreed to take her with us to Corrie’s, and make another decision depending on what we found there.

  ‘But Kevin,’ warned Lee, ‘we might have to make some ugly choices.’

  Kevin just nodded. He knew.

  Robyn, who’d thought of the bikes, ended up jogging most of the way to Corrie’s. We could only get two on a bike, and she said she needed the exercise. Homer dinked Kevin, who nursed Flip in his arms. The little corgi spent the whole trip licking his face in an ecstasy of love and gratitude. It would have been funny, if we’d had any emotional energy left to laugh.

  The image I’ll always remember from Corrie’s place is of Corrie standing alone in the middle of the sitting room, tears streaming down her face. Then Kevin came in from checking the bedrooms, saw her, and moving quickly to her took her in his arms and held her close. They just stood there for quite a few minutes. I liked Kevin a lot for that.

  Under a lot of pressure from Robyn we agreed to try to eat before doing any more. She had been so logical all evening, and she was still being logical, even though it was her house that we would head for next. So she and I and Homer made sandwiches with stale bread and salami, and lettuce and tomatoes from Mrs Mackenzie’s famous vegetable garden. We made tea and coffee too, using long-life milk and a little solid-fuel camping stove. It was hard to force the food down our dry and choked-up throats, but we nagged and nagged until everyone had eaten at least one sandwich, and it did make a difference to our energy and morale.

  We decided as we ate that we would go to Robyn’s, but we knew that we were heading into a whole new set of problems. Out here in the country, where most of us lived, where the air was free and the paddocks wide and empty, we had still been moving fairly confidently. Danger just didn’t seem real. We knew that if there was trouble, if there was danger, it would be in town.

  Robyn described, for the ones who hadn’t been there, the layout of her house, and where it was in relation to Wirrawee. We figured that it should be safe to go in on Coachman’s Lane, which was just a dirt track at the back of a few ten acre blocks, including Robyn’s. From the hill behind Robyn’s we could get a glimpse of the town, which might tell us something.

  It was time to leave. Corrie was waiting for me at the front door. I’d been using the bathroom. I’d forgotten that the Mackenzies weren’t on town water, and a pressure pump needs electricity to operate. So I’d had to go out to the bathtub in the vegetable garden, fill a bucket with water, and come back in to fill the cistern and flush the toilet. Corrie was getting impatient but I held her up a few moments longer. I was coming down the passageway, past their telephone, when I noticed a message on their fax. ‘Corrie,’ I called out, ‘do you want to see this?’ I held it out, adding as she came towards me, ‘It’s probably an old one but you never know’.

  She took it and read it. As she went from line to line I saw her mouth slowly open. Her face seemed to become longer and thinner, with shock. She stared at me with big eyes, then pushed the message into my hands and stood there, shaking, as I read.

  In a rough scrawl I saw these words, written by Mr Mackenzie:

  Corrie, I’m in the Show Secretary’s Office. Something’s going on. People say it’s just Army manoeuvres but I’m sending this anyway, then heading home to tear it up so no one’ll know what an idiot I’ve been. But Corrie, if you do get this, go bush. Take great care. Don’t come out till you know it’s safe. Much love darling. Dad.

  The last twenty or so words were heavily underlined, everything from ‘go bush’ onwards.

  We looked at each other for a moment, then had a big hug. We both cried a bit, then ran outside to show the others.

  I think I must have run out of tears after that day, because I haven’t cried again since.

  When we left the Mackenzies’ we moved cautiously. For the first time we acted like people in a war, like soldiers, like guerillas. Corrie said to us, ‘I’ve always laughed at Dad for being so cautious. The way he carries his spirit level everywhere. But his big motto is “Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted”. Maybe we’d better go with that for a while.’

  We had another bike, Corrie’s, so we worked out a way of travelling that we thought was a compromise between speed and safety. We fixed a landmark – the first one was the old Church of Christ – and the first pair, Robyn and Lee, were to ride to it and stop. If it was safe they’d go back and drop a tea towel on the road, two hundred metres before the church. The next pair would set out five minutes after Robyn and Lee and the last three five minutes later. We agreed on total silence, and we left Kevin’s old corgi, Flip, chained up at the Mackenzies’. Our fear was making us think.

  For all that, the trip to Robyn’s was uneventful. Slow, but uneventful. We found her house in the same condition as the others, empty, smelling bad, cobwebs already. It made me wonder how quickly houses would fall apart if people weren’t there to look after them. They’d always seemed so solid, so permanent. That poem Mum was always quoting, ‘Look on my works ye mighty and despair’. That was all I could remember, but it was the first time I started to understand the truth of it.

  It was 1.30 in the morning. We went up to the hill behind Robyn’s house and looked at Wirrawee. Suddenly I was very tired. The town was in darkness, no street lights even. There must have been some power though, because there were quite strong lights at the Showground – the floodlights they used for the trotting track – and a couple of buildings in the centre of town were lit. As we sat there we talked softly about our next move. There was no question that we had to try to reach Fi’s house, and Lee’s. Not because we expected to find anyone, but because five of us had seen our homes, had seen the emptiness, had been given a chance to understand, and it was only fair that the last two should get the same right.

  A truck drove slowly out of the Showground and to one of the lit buildings, in Barker Street I think. We stopped talking and watched. It was the first sign of human life, other than our own, that we’d seen since the planes.

  Then Homer made an unpopular suggestion. ‘I think we should split up.’

  There was a whispered howl of protest, if you can have that. It was different to Kevin and Corrie offering to go on their own before. They just hadn’t wanted to drag us away from Homer’s. But now Homer wouldn’t give in.

  ‘We need to be out of town before dawn. A long way out of town. And we’re running short of time. It’s not going to be quick and easy, travelling around these streets. We’re getting tired, and that alone will slow us down, not to mention the care that we’ll have to take. Also, two people can move more quietly than seven. And finally, to tell you the truth, if there are soldiers here and anyone’s caught ... well, again, two’s better than seven. I hate to mention the fact, but five people free and two people locked up is a better equation than no people free and seven locked up. You all know what a whiz I am at Maths.’

  He’d talked us into silence. We knew he was right, except for the Maths part maybe.
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  ‘So what are you suggesting?’ Kevin asked.

  ‘I’ll go with Fi. I’ve always wanted to see inside one of those rich houses on the hill. This is my big chance.’ Fi aimed a tired kick at him which he allowed to hit his shin. ‘Maybe if Robyn and Lee go to Lee’s, what do you think? And you other three take a closer look at the Showground. All those lights ... maybe that’s their base. Or it could be where they’re keeping people even.’

  We digested all this, then Robyn said, ‘Yes, it’s the best way. How about anyone not wearing dark clothes come back to the house and help yourselves to some? And we meet back here on the hill at, say, three o’clock?’

  ‘What if someone’s missing?’ Fi asked quietly. It was a terrible thought. After a silence Fi answered her own question. ‘How about we wait till 3.30 if anyone’s not back. Then move out fast, but come back tomorrow night – I mean tonight. And if you’re the ones missing and you get back late, lie low for the day.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Homer. ‘That’s all we can do.’

  Kevin and Corrie and I didn’t need any darker clothing, so we were ready to go. We stood and hugged everyone and wished them luck. A minute later, when I looked back, I could no longer see them. We picked our way down the hill towards Warrigle Street, climbed through the Mathers’ front fence and crept along the side of the road, keeping very close to the treeline. Kevin was leading. I just hoped he didn’t come across any creepie-crawlies. It wouldn’t be a good time for him to start yelling and screaming.

  Although the Showground was on the edge of town, it was the opposite side to the edge we were on, so we had quite a walk ahead. But we could move fairly quickly, because we were well away from the main streets. Not that Wirrawee’s got many main streets. I was glad that we were moving: it was the only thing keeping me sane. It was so hard concentrating on walking and watching and keeping quiet at the same time. Sometimes I forgot and made a noise, then the other two would turn and look angrily at me. I’d shrug, spread my arms, roll my eyes. I still couldn’t comprehend that this might be a matter of life and death, that this was the most serious thing I’d ever been involved in. Of course I knew it; I just couldn’t keep remembering it every single second. My mind wasn’t that well disciplined. And besides, Kevin and Corrie weren’t as quiet as they thought they were.

  It was hard being so dark, too. Hard not to trip over stones, or tread on noisy sticks or, on one occasion, bump into a garbage can.

  We got into Racecourse Road, and felt a little safer, as there are so few houses along there. Passing Mrs Alexander’s I stopped for a moment to sniff at the big old roses that grew along her front fence. I loved her garden. She had a party there every year, a Christmas party. It had only been a few weeks since I’d been standing under one of her apple trees, holding a plate of biscuits and telling Steve I didn’t want to go with him any more. Now it felt like it’d happened five years ago. It had been a hard thing to do, and Steve being so nice about it made me feel worse. Maybe that’s why he was so nice about it. Or was I just being cynical?

  I wondered where Steve was now, and Mrs Alexander, and the Mathers and Mum and Dad and everybody. Could we really have been attacked, invaded? I couldn’t imagine how they would have felt, how they would have reacted. They must have been so shocked, so stunned. Some of them would have tried to fight, surely. Some of our friends were hardly the kind of people who would lie down and take it if a bunch of soldiers came marching in to take over their land and houses. Mr George for instance. A building inspector came onto his land last year, to tell him he couldn’t extend his shearing shed, and Mr George had been summonsed for threatening him with a tyre lever. For that matter Dad was pretty stubborn too. I just hoped there hadn’t been violence. I hoped they’d been sensible.

  I stumbled along, thinking of Mum and Dad. Our lives had always been so unaffected by the outside world. Oh, we’d watched the News on TV and felt bad when they showed pictures of wars and famines and floods. Occasionally I’d tried to imagine being in the places of those people, but I couldn’t. Imagination has its limits. But the only real impact the outside world had on us was in wool and cattle prices. A couple of countries would sign an agriculture treaty thousands of k’s away, on another continent, and a year later we’d have to lay off a worker.

  But in spite of our isolation, our unglamorous life, I loved being a rural. Other kids couldn’t wait to get away to the city. It was like, the moment they finished school they’d be at the bus depot with their bags packed. They wanted crowds and noise and fast food stores and huge shopping centres. They wanted adrenalin pumping through their veins. I liked those things, in small doses, and I knew that in my life I’d like to spend good lengths of time in the city. But I also knew where I most liked to be, and that was out here, even if I did spend half my life headfirst in a tractor engine, or pulling a lamb out of a barbed-wire fence, or getting kicked black and blue by a heifer when I got between her and her calf.

  At that stage I still hadn’t come to terms with what had happened. That’s not surprising. We knew so little. All we had were clues, guesses, surmises. For instance, I wouldn’t allow myself to really consider the possibility that Mum or Dad – or anyone else – had been injured or killed. I mean, I knew in my logical mind that such things were logical outcomes of invasions and fights and wars, but my logical mind was in a little box My imagination was in another box entirely and I wasn’t letting one transmit to the other. I guess you can’t really comprehend that your parents will ever die. It’s like contemplating your own death.

  My feelings were in another box again. During that walk I was desperate to keep them sealed up.

  But I did let myself assume that my parents were being held somewhere, against their will. I pictured them, Dad, frustrated and angry, like a bull in a pen, refusing to accept what had happened, refusing to accept anyone else’s authority. He wouldn’t let himself begin to try to understand what was going on, why these people had come. He wouldn’t want to know what their language was, or their ideas, or their culture. Even through my shock and horror I still wanted to understand; I still wanted answers to those questions.

  Mum would be different. She’d be concentrating on keeping her mind clear, on not being taken over mentally. I pictured her staring out over the bare hills, through the fence of a prison camp maybe, ignoring the petty distractions, the background voices, the deliberate irritations.

  Then I realised I was just thinking of both my parents as they were at home.

  We’d reached the end of Racecourse Road. I’d fallen a little behind Kevin and Corrie, and they were waiting for me. We formed a little dark huddle between a tree and a fence. Anyone seeing us might have mistaken us for a strange black growth that had sprouted from the ground. It was getting quite cold and I felt the other two shivering as we crouched together.

  ‘We’ll have to be extra careful now that we’re so close,’ Kevin whispered. ‘Try not to get so far behind, Ellie.’

  ‘Sorry. I was thinking.’

  ‘Well, what’s the plan?’ he asked.

  ‘Just to get close enough to have a look,’ Corrie said. ‘We don’t have all that much time. The main thing’s to be careful. If we can’t see anything then we just go back to Robyn’s. If there’s anyone there the dumbest thing we could do would be to have them see us and come after us.’

  ‘OK, agreed,’ Kevin said. He started standing. That annoyed me. It was typical Kevin not to ask me what I thought. I pulled him back down.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get a move on El.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean rushing in like idiots. For example, what if we do get seen? Or if we get chased? We can’t just run back to Robyn’s place. That’d lead them there.’

  ‘Well I guess, separate. It’d be harder for them to chase three different people than one group. Then, if we’re sure we’re not being followed, make our own way back to Robyn’s.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No!
If we’re being strictly logical, like Homer was before, we shouldn’t all sneak in close to the Showground. One of us should go and the other two stay here. Less chance of being seen, and less loss if one gets caught.’

  Corrie gave a little cry. ‘No! That’s being too logical! You’re my best friends! I don’t want to be that logical!’

  Neither did I, when I thought about it. ‘OK then,’ I said. ‘All for one and one for all. Let’s go. The three musketeers.’

  We slipped across the road like shadows and moved around the corner. The light from the Showground reached even here, faintly, but enough to make a difference. We stopped at its edge, feeling nervous. It was as though a single step into that light would immediately make us visible to a whole army of hostile watchers. It was frightening.

  That was the first moment at which I started to realise what true courage was. Up until then, everything had been unreal, like a night-stalking game at a school camp. To come out of the darkness now would be to show courage of a type that I’d never had to show before, never even known about. I had to search my own mind and body to find if there was a new part of me somewhere. I felt there was a spirit in me that could do this thing, but it was a spirit I hadn’t known about. If I could only find it I could connect with it and then maybe, just maybe, I could start to defrost the fear that had frozen my body. Maybe I could do this dangerous and terrible thing.

  A small single movement was my key to finding my spirit. There was a tree about four steps away, in front of me and to my left, well inside the zone of light from the Showground. I suddenly made myself leave the darkness and go to it, in four quick light steps, a dance that surprised me, but made me feel a little light-headed and proud. That’s it! I thought. I’ve done it! It was a dance of courage. I felt then, and still feel now, that I was transformed by those four steps. At that moment I stopped being an innocent rural teenager and started becoming someone else, a more complicated and capable person, a force to be reckoned with even, not just a polite obedient kid. There wasn’t time then to explore this new and interesting me, but I promised myself I’d do it later.