Conversation had gradually lapsed after that and the driver dropped him at the Southern Command army office in the centre of town. He went inside and gave his name, hoping this time his story would be received with more credence.
“So where have you been?” he was asked by the elderly commanding officer, Major Sherman, who had invited him to sit down.
“Waiting to give evidence, Sir. Her lawyer can verify I was a witness.”
“I meant where, since the case ended nearly two weeks ago?”
“Miss Watson asked me to remain in case there was an appeal,” he hopefully repeated.
“She did, eh?” said the major, “invited you to stay on, just in case?” He gave an amiable smile. “Nice work for a young bloke if you can get it.” The major had a chest full of medals from World War One and had clearly been brought from retirement to command an army desk in the district. “I saw the picture of her in the local rag. Did you paint that?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Very nice! The wife’s a bit of a painter and she approved. I daresay you enjoyed the…” he hesitated, in search of a tactful word, “the…er…rather lengthy encounter. It’s been two months since your comrades were moved to Cowra and the camp was closed.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So where were you billeted?”
“In the main house. I was told I had to remain, as a key witness. I was actually one of the people in the room when Thompson was arrested.”
“A key witness confined to the Watson mansion. Like being under house arrest,” said the major cheerfully, so Carlo smiled as well.
“For my protection, sir, I was told.”
“Quite so. You and the delightful Miss Watson? Two long months.”
“Well, yes,” said Carlo, realising it was a hopeless story and letting the Major make his own assumptions.
“Yes? Does that actually mean yes, you were protected, or yes you had a bit of what we used to call ‘the other’.” He smiled when Carlo looked helpless. “If you don’t know that expression, it’s often called slap-and-tickle.”
Carlo began to wish he’d stayed with Tiffany. Nobody believed him. It seemed painting a portrait of anyone who looked like her was a passport to bed. But, of course, that’s exactly what it had been! He chided himself. He could be in bed with her now instead of wanting to tell the Major he’d like to hire a dinghy and row it all the way back to Italy.
“Never mind, young Signore. So where do we imagine we’re going, now we’ve moved on from Miss Watson?” The genial major answered his own question. “I’ll tell you where you’re going, old son. I’m afraid it’s off to the nearest POW camp at Cowra. And there’ll you’ll have to stay until we win this war. No more painting girls or whatever else you got up to out there. In the meantime I suggest you go and sit in the lounge until we check what’s running and when. We’ll get you on the first train.”
He pressed a button on his desk before Carlo could reply, and a smart young woman in army uniform came in. “Look after him, Hazel. Give him a cup of tea, and find out about the rail times.”
“Yes, Major.”
The lounge contained lots of old magazines and looked more like a dentist’s waiting room. Hazel brought him tea and a biscuit then checked the trains while Carlo tried to read a magazine about surfing. He switched to another about indoor gardens and was searching for something of more interest when he was interrupted by Major Sherman summoning him back to his office. The major no longer seemed as good-humoured, ordering Carlo to stand at attention and answer some questions.
“First of all, tell me about this conspiracy.”
“Conspiracy? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Major.”
“You don’t?” He indicated a printed list of names in front of him.
“This is a list of prisoners-of-war at your previous camp. Names and details of everyone who was there. Just one name is not listed, and it’s yours.”
Carlo just stared at him, trying to get his thoughts in order.
“I checked because I need to send your details to Cowra. But Cowra won’t know what the devil I’m talking about. There’s no record of anyone on this known as Carlo Minnelli. Which is easily explained as your name has obviously been removed from the list?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea…” Carlo started to say, but Major Sherman interrupted him.
“Of course not. You were too busy playing house with Tiffany Watson.”
“Sir, I was told I was a key witness by her lawyer. She wanted me to finish her portrait then said I was to wait, in case of an appeal. But I knew nothing about this.”
“I know you didn’t. There was, after all, another person in that house.”
“She wouldn’t have done it.”
“I’m inclined to think she would—and that she most certainly did.”
“Excuse me, Sir, but not Tiffany. Maybe her lawyer.”
“He wouldn’t have had access. You know damned well who it was.”
“No, sir, I don’t. And didn’t have the faintest idea.”
“If I’m to believe you, which I’m inclined to, it could not be anyone else. First of all I needed to make sure it wasn’t you. But you’d hardly turn up like you did, not if your objective was evading custody.” He gestured at the chair. “Sit down Carlo, for goodness sake,” he muttered.
The reply and unexpected use of his Christian name made Carlo reflect as he sat down. Tiffany had told him she’d been in touch with this office, after claiming she’d phoned to extend his stay. That was clearly untrue. And he recalled her upset when he was categorised as a POW in court. So often he’d thought of his amazing luck and wondered if the law had authority, or if he’d simply been overlooked for transfer. Now he realised. The law did not have this power, and prisoners-of-war weren’t likely to be overlooked. Not if their name was on a list, which his certainly would’ve been if Tommo was still in charge. So, who else had access to the names? No one except…
“Shit!” He barely knew he’d spoken aloud until the Major nodded.
“Shit, indeed. She no doubt wanted her portrait painted, and a supporting court witness, but I daresay there’s another element we need to discuss.”
“Major, she’s just getting her life back together. Whatever her reasons, I’d hate to see her in more trouble. It’s just as much my fault…” he broke off as Sherman glared at him.
“If you’re about to be gallant, don’t be ridiculous!”
“I’m just a POW anyway. What else can happen to me apart from a spell in Cowra detention? I’ll probably get that for certain.”
“Stop trying to be so bloody noble. Let’s accept that no one has caused any harm. There are no bodies, no bombs and no concrete evidence against Miss Watson. I don’t propose to make this an unnecessary storm in the teacup. No one witnessed her do anything so we can speculate but we can’t validate, substantiate or corroborate. Does that make you feel better?” the Major asked with a smile.
“Very much, sir. So what happens?”
“I’ll advise the young lady that if she fancies a young man from Italy and tries anything like that again, she’ll be in a heap of trouble. What happens to you? You’ll go to Cowra, but the good news is we won’t need guards or handcuffs. After all, you did turn up here of your own volition. And I’ll give you a letter to verify that with the Major in charge of the Italian compound. Save a lot of red tape. Nothing quite as daunting as army red tape.”
“Thank you, sir.” He could not restrain his own smile of relief.
“Delayed by legalities in court. Lawyers, eh? I expect they’re so busy with torts, malpractice and other issues they’ve forgotten there’s a war on. But we can’t have you blamed for their points-of-order, or Miss Watson’s libido.”
“Thank you very much, Major.”
“No need for any more gratitude, old son.” Carlo was so surprised by the genial exchange he held out his hand. The Major looked at it with surprise, then shook hands. “Now send Hazel in like
a good chap.”
Carlo read another magazine while he waited. It turned out there was no train to Cowra that night, which was fortunate. The Major had taken a liking to him and said ‘the wife’—a bit of a painter herself—had invited him to dinner.
They lived in a modest house overlooking the canal, rental paid by the army Mrs Sherman told him. She also broke the news there’d be no train tomorrow and none until the day after. But he was not to worry as they had a comfortable spare room, the bed was made, and he would be most welcome. All of this was conveyed in a rush, as if to assure him he was amongst friends, and from the first moment this was apparent. She was instantly likeable. In her late forties Carlo estimated, younger than the jovial major, comfortably plump, a motherly woman who’d be popular because of her ready smile and sincerity. About the age of his own mother, he thought, and she made him feel at home.
“I’m Janet,” she said when the Major went to change from his uniform into casual clothes. She showed Carlo the spare room, with the bed already made and a towel laid out for him. She asked if he’d like a rest after his long trek, or else a shower.
“A shower sounds wonderful,” Carlo said. He put on his only clean clothes inherited from Tiffany’s cousin, before joining her in the living room. There were family photos on the walls, two children at all stages of growing up, and a later picture of the young man in an AIF uniform and slouch hat.
“Our tribe,” said Janet, pointing out a small girl. “This was Juliet, now an adult and serving in the WAAAF, the Women’s Australian Auxiliary Air Force.” She indicated the soldier. “Daniel’s in New Guinea. I’m not religious, but I say prayers every night. It’s been such a ferocious battle for the past two years, and despite my husband’s medals, I really hate war.”
They stopped at a larger frame with some photos arranged like a collage of herself and the Major over the years. Among them, Carlo noticed a small and simple painting that looked familiar. Up close it had a caption: Captain James Sherman, 1930. He was considerably younger and leaner. In the corner were tiny initials: J.S. Carlo moved closer to study them.
“Janet Sherman,” he said, glancing at her as she flushed slightly.
“I keep wanting to take it out of there, but Jamie won’t let me.”
“He’s right, it should stay,” Carlo said, “What age was he then?”
“Forty,” his wife gave a quick look to ensure they were alone, “which makes him fifty-four now. But don’t mention it, Carlo. He’s sensitive about the advancing years.”
“I have a relative like that,” Carlo said, and told her about his grandma of sixty-five who demanded to be called Sofia. “She says being called ‘Gran’ makes her feel a week older each time she hears it.”
“My nearest and dearest is a bit that way,” Janet laughed as the Major, in his casual clothes, came to suggest it was time for drinks. Indicating the painting, he told Carlo his wife was a frustrated artist.
“She shouldn’t be frustrated, Sir. It’s well drawn and very recognisable. Painted with real affection.”
“Hmph,” was a difficult sound to translate, but it seemed to indicate he was pleased. “Do you really think so?”
“I do, Sir.”
“We’re not on parade, Carlo. I’m Jamie at home. The wife is Janet.”
“The wife,” Janet said with a mock sigh, “has already introduced herself.”
They had drinks before dinner and over a leisurely meal Janet turned the conversation to the portrait of Tiffany. “I’ve never met her, but she’s well known in the district of course, and the court case was a conversation piece at all the army parties. Did the painting take you long?”
“The face took the longest. And getting her to sit still. Once we got past that, the rest was easy.”
“She looked beautiful I’m sure she was pleased,” Janet said, and Carlo noticed his host’s fleeting smile.
“The word in town is, she was most pleased,” Jamie said circumspectly.
Thinking it was time to change the subject, Carlo asked Janet if she was still painting.
“Whenever I can,” she replied. “Jamie was asked to re-join the army when war broke out, and after both children joined up, I did try again. But I have doubts at times. It used to be much easier.”
When the Major was back in his office the next morning, Carlo sat with her and spent the day looking through her sketches and drawings. There were portraits of the children at various ages and landscapes of places where the army had sent her husband. He liked many of them and was glad at being able to say so, for he knew the importance of encouragement. That night the Major had a staff meeting and Janet proposed she and Carlo go to a movie. Casablanca with Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart was on at the local picture show. He loved it, admitting he’d never seen these famous stars, nor many others. In fact Janet soon realised he’d hardly seen any films since childhood. She learned a lot about his life on the vineyard and realised that before being kidnapped and forced into the army, the farm and painting had been the extent of his rather rigid early life.
“I wish I could do something to help him,” said Janet, who’d developed a genuine affection for him.
“But you can’t,” the Major said. “He has to be on that train tomorrow and don’t feel too sorry for him. Try to remember the lovely Miss Watson did her very best to make him extremely happy.”
Janet Sherman blinked at her husband. He rarely voiced any local gossip to her. “Do you really think so?”
“I’m quite certain of it,” he responded with a smile, but without further comment.
“Well good for her,” said Janet. “I thought she might be a spoiled brat, but she’s gone up in my estimation.”
“You used to be a bit of a prude, Janet.”
“It’s different if friends are involved, my darling, and I already feel he’s rather like a friend.”
“Good. I thought you might,” her husband said.
In fact there was already one way she had secretly decided to help Carlo, but in view of Jamie’s senior rank and devotion to duty, she thought it best not to divulge the details. At least Carlo was being allowed to travel alone without escort. It was a huge mark of esteem; Jamie had phoned the Major at Cowra, a close friend, expressing his belief the young artist was worthy of their trust. Both men felt strong affinity with Italian POWs, and were willing to extend consideration when possible. As the guards at Cowra were fully occupied with overcrowded Japanese prisoners, Major Morton agreed.
The next day Janet drove him to the station and waved until the train was out of sight. In her handbag she had the address of his mother in Rome, and had learned that letters from civilians to the family of war prisoners arrived far more quickly. If it was true she could assist Carlo, knowing like most POWs he had concerns about delays in postage.
Janet had no secrets from her husband, but just this once…not knowing could not harm him. What would he think of her doing this? He’d probably call it fraternisation with the enemy! She smiled at the absurdity of it. She firmly believed if mums with sons communicated with mums on the opposite side, there’d be far fewer wars. That was why, as soon as she returned home, she sat at the kitchen table with a fountain pen and paper, thinking of what she could say to someone she’d never met. Dear Beatrice, she began, then waited for inspiration that was slow in coming. Until she suddenly thought of something that made her smile and would, she felt sure, brighten Beatrice’s day.
On his arrival after a slow train journey, Carlo found Cowra a quiet and pleasant country town. It was full of signs warning the inhabitants against strangers and declaring that loose tongues were a danger in wartime. His tall lean figure and light olive skin created attention when he stopped people to seek directions to the prisoner-of-war camp. Being asked why he wished to know this, he said he was a prisoner-of-war and about to be detained there.
The first person nearly called the police. The second, an elderly woman, thought it a practical joke and invited him home for a cup of
tea. The third, a girl in a milk bar, thought it was a smart new pick-up technique. After assuring her he was a genuine POW, not armed or dangerous, she drew him a map of the town, put her phone number on it, and said there was a dance each Saturday night if he should happen to be free. Guided by her map he walked the three miles out to the camp, where a sentry on duty at the gates, without much surprise, directed him to report to the administration block. It made Carlo feel this might be a very different kind of custody to the others he’d experienced.
“Just follow your nose straight down Broadway,” the sentry said, telling him this was a main access road through the camp, called Broadway because the lights blazed there all night.
An hour later he’d been welcomed without any problem after presenting Major Sherman’s letter. He was registered, promptly issued with clothes and blankets, allotted a bunk in one of the generous-sized barracks, then took a stroll to look around the large camp. The speed and efficiency of his admission was a revelation to Carlo.
Set on an open grassy plain, with a line of trees bordering distant hills, the surrounding properties were mostly sheep and dairy farms, with occasional herds of cattle. In the far distance he could hear the sound of timber cutters at work. Where he stood in the foreground of this pastoral scene, the wide-spread POW camp comprised four large compounds of equal size, two of them solely for Italians. These, he’d been told, contained over a thousand prisoners but in spite of this number it did not feel overcrowded. The neat lines of barrack-style housing were replicated in each sector and provided relaxed living, with abundant showers, ample latrines, laundries, as well as each compound having its own stores, kitchens, mess huts, workshops, recreation rooms and a barber shop. There was a hospital in addition to medical and dental centres and one of the amenity huts bore a notice that it was sometimes used as a theatre where plays were staged. The four compounds were divided by barricades of heavy barbed wire, providing a walkway for the guards, cooks, cleaners and all the Australian staff to use. This thoroughfare running across the camp was called ‘No Man’s Land’.
The Last Double Sunrise Page 21
