While the Moon Burns

by Peter Watt

  ‘It is good to have you with us, Patrick,’ Sean said, extending his hand. ‘I’m sure that you are weary after such a long trip.’

  ‘Oh, no, Uncle Sean,’ Patrick said. ‘Some nice Yank soldiers taught me how to play poker last night, and I even won some money.’

  Sean and Allison looked at each other with barely concealed grins.

  ‘I suppose snakes and ladders will be a bit dull after poker,’ Sean said.

  ‘No, Uncle Sean. I still like playing snakes and ladders.’

  The three made their way to the exit gates to enter the cavernous hall that led out to the streets of Sydney. Patrick kept his suitcase close as it held a small fortune in American delicacies that would have to last him for some time. He wished he could stay with Uncle Sean the whole time he was in Sydney, but everyone was insisting he go to boarding school. He supposed it was a good idea but he could not help but think with envy of Terituba roaming freely back home. As far as Patrick was concerned, playing in the bush and learning to make spears and hunt was the only education a boy needed. It was a shame that the adults did not agree.

  *

  Many miles west of Sydney in the rolling green hills of Goulburn, in a sprawling country house, a two-year-old boy stood naked in front of the great open fireplace where a big log glowed red and warmed the room. His nanny, Miss Val Keevers, rubbed him down with a fluffy towel.

  Her mistress had only visited her son once in the two years of the boy’s life, and that had only been for half a day when she was en route to Canberra for a meeting. There had been no real bond between mother and son and the only real mother the boy knew was the woman who cared for him. Val had come to love the little boy she was raising as her own, but was reminded when she received her pay from the Macintosh companies that she was merely an employee with the task of caring for Sarah’s son.

  After Michael was dressed in his pyjamas Val found the battered book about a bear called Winnie the Pooh. She sat him on her lap and began to read the story, which she’d read to him countless times before, and eventually the little boy fell asleep. Val closed the book and ran her hands through the thick mat of Michael’s dark hair.

  ‘You poor little mite,’ she said quietly, forcing back tears. ‘You don’t really have a mother – but I will always be with you.’

  Outside the sprawling country house the wind whipped up cold sheets of rain that rattled the windows, and Michael Macintosh slept in his beloved nanny’s arms by the fire.

  *

  Patrick was frightened but was determined not to show his fear as he walked beside Uncle Sean up the driveway of the imposing three-storeyed stone structure that was St Ignatius College. They passed a white statue of a strange-looking person wearing a long gown. In the distance Patrick could see green sporting grounds and hear the shouts of students echoing from the rugby fields.

  To a boy who had enjoyed the freedom of the bush, where he had lived a life of bare-footed adventure, the school felt restrictive and cold. A bald-headed man wearing a long, black cassock and spectacles welcomed them at a massive entrance door.

  ‘Major Duffy,’ he said. ‘I see you have our latest addition in tow.’

  Patrick wanted to grip Sean’s hand but that would not be manly.

  ‘Father,’ Sean said, ‘may I introduce Master Patrick Duffy.’

  The Jesuit priest looked Patrick up and down. ‘He looks strong and healthy,’ he said. ‘Does he play any sports?’

  Sean looked to Patrick, who piped up, ‘I can throw a spear and kill a goanna.’

  ‘Well, we do have javelin throwing on the athletics team,’ the priest said with a hint of a smile. ‘Come in and we can settle matters for his boarding with us,’ he said, turning to enter the portals of the school’s administration.

  Sean and Patrick followed him. Patrick felt uncomfortable in the school uniform that had been purchased for him. He had never worn a blazer before, and it felt foreign. They passed other boys of various ages wearing the same uniform in the hallways, who gave Patrick the occasional curious glance as a foreigner in their ranks.

  The priest led them to a dormitory, where neat rows of beds and lockers spoke of conformity. Patrick was directed to a bed, and on the adjacent bed he saw a smaller boy sitting forlornly with his hands clasped.

  ‘Why aren’t you at sports, Murphy?’ the priest asked the smaller boy.

  ‘I don’t feel well, Father,’ the boy replied without standing.

  ‘Stand up, Murphy,’ the priest commanded. Murphy rose to his feet obediently and stood mute. ‘You can make yourself useful and help our new boy settle in then.’

  ‘Sadly, Murphy’s father was killed last month, somewhere up in New Guinea,’ the priest continued quietly to Sean. ‘We have to allow him a bit of latitude.’

  ‘Patrick’s mother is a prisoner of war in Changi,’ Sean said. ‘But he has adjusted, and occasionally gets a letter from her. He lost his father before he was born.’

  The priest nodded sadly. ‘I am sure Patrick will find friends amongst the other boys,’ he said. ‘He may find things strange at first, but after a time he will settle in. I’m afraid that from your reports about his schooling out in the bush we will have to put him back a class.’

  ‘I understand,’ Sean said, watching Patrick looking in his empty locker. ‘He is highly intelligent and I’m sure will do well with his lessons.’

  ‘Murphy, you are now in charge of showing young Duffy around the school and teaching him about some of our traditions,’ the priest said. ‘Say goodbye to the major, Duffy. It is time for him to leave.’

  ‘I’ll see you on the weekend,’ Sean said. ‘I’m not too far away. Chin up and remember that you’re a Duffy.’

  Patrick fought back tears as he watched the departing back of his Uncle Sean.

  ‘My name is Ken Murphy,’ the boy said. ‘I come from Hillston.’

  ‘I’m Patrick Duffy and I come from Glen View.’

  The boys formally shook hands.

  ‘How old are you?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘I’m eight but I had to go back one class. You and I are in the same class. Father John is a real bastard. You’ll see. He loves to use the cane.’

  Patrick was perplexed by the reference to the cane but did not want to exhibit his ignorance.

  ‘You have to remember when you’re writing that you have to put AMDG at the top left on every page or you’ll be in trouble,’ Ken said.

  ‘What’s AMDG?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘Aunt Mary’s Dead Goat,’ Ken replied. ‘Not really,’ he continued when he saw the confusion on Patrick’s face. ‘It’s something in Latin which means “to the greater glory of God”. I hate Latin. You have to decline all the words, and only the old Eyties speak Latin. Come on, I’ll take you around the grounds and show you where everything is. We even have an observatory where you can see the stars through a telescope.’

  Ken continued to natter about many things which were strange to Patrick, but the smaller boy was friendly, and Patrick thought they could be friends. Maybe when they were he could ask his new friend what the cane was and why Father John was a bastard. It was a word he’d been told he should never use.

  They were at one of the green sports grounds when Patrick saw the school rugby team practising. One of the boys on the sideline, who seemed at least three years older than Patrick, was wiping down his face, and spotted Ken showing the new boy the football field.

  ‘Hey, Murphy!’ the boy yelled. ‘You stopped wetting your bed since your old man got killed?’

  Patrick turned to Ken and saw tears welling in his eyes. Without hesitation, Patrick strode over to the older boy.

  ‘You take that back,’ Patrick demanded, standing squarely in front of the older boy, who stared at him with an expression of amusement.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked, throwing aside the wet towel, shoving
Patrick in the chest. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  With all his strength, Patrick delivered a good punch square to the face of the older boy, who stumbled back in shock, his hand up to his bleeding nose. The altercation caught the attention of the boys playing rugby, and they came running to the sideline. The older boy launched himself at Patrick, who was quick to step aside and leap on his back as he had learned wrestling with Terituba at Glen View. As if possessed, Patrick put a stranglehold on his assailant’s neck, choking him, until hands reached down to rip Patrick away.

  ‘Hey, new boy, we could do with you on the team when we play Joeys,’ a voice laughed, before he was marched off the grounds.

  Patrick had hardly been on the school grounds an hour when he found out about Father John and his cane.

  News of the fight circulated through the dining room that evening, and Patrick learned he had taken on the infamous bully of the school and beaten him into submission. Ken Murphy stood tall beside Patrick, whose sudden reputation for being fearless was like a suit of armour for them both.

  In the weeks ahead Patrick became firm friends with Ken. He discovered a love for the game they called rugby and even a liking for Latin. It was only when he was in bed and the lights were turned out that the young boy stared into the darkness and wondered what was to become of him. No father, and a mother he barely remembered. He tried to cling to the image of his mother’s sad face as he stepped aboard a train carriage in Malaya headed south for Singapore. That seemed a lifetime ago.

  *

  Diane Duffy felt waves of nausea overwhelm her as she kneeled on the concrete floor of the prison ablutions. She dropped the scrubbing brush and leaned forward against the cement wall. Changi had been a criminal prison before the war and now housed military servicemen as well as civilian men, women and children. It was overcrowded and malnutrition had brought with it starvation and disease.

  Diane simply dismissed the bout of nausea a result of the appalling food the prisoners referred to as ‘slush and ash’. Even the rations had been cut back. But just before VE Day in Europe, the Japanese had strangely doled out extra Red Cross parcels.

  ‘Mother, are you ill?’ the voice of her adopted son came to her from the doorway.

  Young Sam was Eurasian – the child of a European father and an Asian mother. Diane had agreed to look after him when she was first incarcerated in the POW camp. Although she thought about Patrick every day, she was comforted by the knowledge that he was safe in Australia and being cared for by her late husband’s relatives. Sam was about the same age as Patrick. If the war ever ended someone might claim Sam, but secretly, Diane hoped he would remain with her.

  Diane rose slowly to her feet and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She could see the fear in the young boy’s face. He had already seen so many die. He came to her and placed his arms around her skeletal body.

  ‘Sheila’s dad is really sick,’ Sam said. ‘I think he is going to die.’

  Sheila Allan was Sam’s friend, also a Eurasian. She was a young woman entering her twenties. Her father was an Australian engineer and her mother a Malayan woman. Diane knew that Sheila was bravely keeping a diary of their imprisonment. This was against the strict rules, and discovery by the guards of its existence could result in execution. Sam worked with her in the prison vegetable garden that produced a meagre amount of fresh food.

  ‘Woman, get yourself to the infirmary,’ a voice commanded, and Diane saw her friend, the English woman Ann Bambury, appear in the ablutions block. She was both mother and sister to Diane as they faced each uncertain day in the infamous prison.

  Diane tried to smile and realised the fever was rapidly returning. She slumped to the floor and was quickly propped up by Ann and young Sam, who half-dragged, half-walked her to the infirmary with its tiny supply of valuable drugs.

  As Diane lay on a cot in a world of pain and despair, she wondered if she would ever survive the hellhole. She knew Ann would take over looking after Sam if she died, but if she died she would never again hold her precious son. The war might be won against the Nazis in Europe but that meant very little to those in Japanese captivity. Could it be that the Japanese might kill them all if they thought they were losing? It was a fear expressed by many in the prison. Diane wondered why they all fought so desperately to stay alive when the Japanese might finish them with a bullet or bayonet at any moment.

  ‘Patrick,’ she sighed as darkness came for her.

  *

  Captain James Duffy had not been posted to a carrier as he had hoped. Instead he found himself flying a Corsair fighter bomber from a captured airfield on the Japanese island of Okinawa. Upon his arrival he had been regaled by his fellow USMC pilots with stories of fighting off waves of kamikaze aircraft launched in a desperate attempt to sink the massive fleet of Allied British and American ships off the coast.

  The Pacific had seen its own D-day landing on the shores of the enemy homeland island weeks earlier, and the attack had been very costly to the marines and army. The slog along the heavily defended island had seen at least twelve thousand soldiers killed and another fifty thousand wounded.

  James was about to lend air support to the crushing of the last bastion of Japanese resistance before the invasion of the Japanese main islands north of them.

  The roar of the big fighter bomber engine drowned all sound except for that in his headphones. He waited patiently for his turn to take off and felt the power of the deadly bird of war vibrate through the controls of the machine. He was armed with rockets and wing-mounted fifty calibre machine guns. This cargo would assist the troops on the ground in destroying a dogged enemy prepared to do anything to stop the Allies advancing on the home of their divine emperor.

  While he waited, James considered his life. It was obvious that the enemy was in retreat and that the war could end soon enough now that the Japanese allies of Germany and Italy were out of the war. It would mean releasing the soldiers, sailors and airmen in Europe to reinforce their fight in the Pacific.

  The command to lift off came through James’s headphones, and he raised his hand to signal to his ground crew that he was ready to take off.

  Gently he eased the big blue aircraft with the bent wings forward onto the tarmac to join the others. In turn each pilot opened up their aircraft’s throttles to gain power. James felt the fighter bounce gently down the strip into the wind, picking up speed and finally lifting off. Ahead was a string of high ground where the Japanese were well dug in, and behind him was his life of memories.

  The chatter of his squadron comrades filled his ears as he glanced around the terrain below to identify his target. He watched as one of the Corsairs peeled off, releasing its rockets. Adjusting his flight path James reached down for the trigger to the rockets and fired. The weapons rushed away, leaving a thin smoke trail to indicate their path. He flicked to machine guns and the rockets impacted on the earth below as a stream of heavy fifty cal tracers followed them. Somewhere below James knew there was a good chance men were being killed or mutilated, by the weapons of his fighter bomber, but he did not care. If killing the enemy was what was needed to bring the war to an end, so be it. The war had hardened James, and as far as he was concerned, the enemy below was not even human.

  FIVE

  Allison was always at her desk when Sean arrived at the law offices, popping his head around the corner to wish her a good morning. When he did so this morning he immediately noticed that she was distracted.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you know?’ she countered.

  ‘Let’s say an instinct,’ Sean replied. ‘You don’t have your usual good morning face. What’s going on?’

  ‘It may be nothing,’ Allison said. ‘I may even be paranoid, but I feel like I’m being followed.’

  Sean raised his eyebrows. ‘In my business paranoia is good,’ he said, stepping into her small office, whi
ch was cluttered with manila folders secured with thin pink ribbons. ‘I’ve experienced it myself over the years, and it usually turned out people were actually trying to kill me. Why do you think you’re being followed?’

  ‘For the last couple of weeks I’ve noticed a man following me to the tram, and another one when I get off. They don’t seem to be going anywhere, and always wear their hats low over their eyes. Sometimes, it’s the same men each day.’

  ‘You are a beautiful young lady: have you considered that they may be interested in that fact and nothing more?’ Sean tried to reassure her.

  ‘I understand what you’re saying, Major, but it doesn’t feel like that,’ Alison said, tapping the base of a pencil on her desk. ‘I’ve even seen men standing on the street outside my flat at night. They look a bit like policemen.’

  ‘If it helps, I’ll have a word to a mutual friend who’ll investigate whether you are just paranoid, or if there is something else afoot,’ Sean said. ‘If there is something sinister, it may be your old foe Sarah Macintosh attempting to intimidate you.’

  ‘I considered that,’ Allison said. ‘She has a real obsession with David, and we know what devious lengths she will go to to get her way.’

  ‘There’s an old saying that the apple does not fall far from the tree, and in Sarah’s case it’s very true,’ Sean said. ‘I thought Sir George was dangerous, but I am coming to think his daughter could be potentially far more dangerous. She has youth and beauty on her side and she uses that to manipulate people. Leave it with me and I’ll sort out the situation.’

  Allison nodded her appreciation, and Sean left her to comb through the files in her office.