by Sue Lawson
I cleared my throat. ‘I’m…’ I tried to close the page, but Laura was already reading the screen.
She leant against the computer desk. ‘That explains why Misery hates me.’
‘It was years ago.’ The dots and lines on the ceiling tiles rearranged into Charlie’s face.
‘So, she does hate me.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘But you didn’t say she didn’t.’
I rubbed my eyes. ‘Laura, it’s not you. She hates everyone.’
Laura folded her arms. ‘How come you only hear how cruel the Japanese were?’ Her voice was loud. ‘It was a war. Both sides were cruel. These shipwrecked Japanese soldiers were slaughtered in the water and—’
‘Can we not?’ My chin wobbled. ‘Yes it sucks, but none of it has to change us.’
‘Sorry, Darce.’ Laura bowed her head. ‘I didn’t mean to … We’re good.’
‘Anyway, I don’t know if Charlie was a prisoner or not. I’m still just guessing.’
Laura wriggled onto my chair and reached for the mouse. ‘This’ll help.’ She clicked a link— POWs on Montevideo Maru.
My heart fluttered like a moth against a window as she scrolled through the names.
‘There, Darce.’ She pointed at Fletcher D.C. VX23813 2/22 INF BN.
I stared at the name, my mind empty.
Laura printed each of the pages I’d found and collected the material from the printer.
I closed the pages I’d opened. There was one I hadn’t read.
Controversy Abounds…
The 2/22nd Battalion’s placement in Rabaul and consequent demise is one of the most controversial incidents of the Pacific Campaign.
Questions remain as to why Lark Force was abandoned on Rabaul, and what really happened to the prisoners. Were they aboard the ship when it was torpedoed or were they massacred, like the troops at the Tol Plantation?
My brain filled with fuzz. Controversy? Massacres?
Before now, if Charlie ever crossed my mind, he was just a passing shadow. A cloud on a sunny day. A grey mass of nothing.
Now, Charlie had become more solid. New shapes and colours were forming. And none of them were comfortable.
Laura returned from the printer. ‘Now what have you found?’
‘Girls, the bell has gone,’ said Ms Farrow, pushing in the chairs at the computer tables. ‘Hurry up.’
‘We have SOSE. The Newt will love this stuff,’ said Laura.
I nodded, the new information wrapped around my heart.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The Newt had forgotten to book the computer lab, so instead of researching our projects, we spent the class answering study questions from our SOSE textbook.
It was just about impossible to concentrate. Questions about Charlie charged around my brain, crashing into each other to reform into new questions. Questions about Rabaul, locked ships holds and drowning.
The Newt snapped his book shut. ‘Your projects are due in a few weeks. How are you all progressing?’
Beside me, Neanderthal groaned. ‘This project sucks.’ He slumped in his seat.
‘Cut the dramatics, Mr Thackery. You are more fortunate than most.’
Neanderthal folded his arms.
‘How do you figure that?’
‘Take Ms Abbott, for example.’
Neanderthal’s lip curled. ‘No thanks.’
The Newt powered on. ‘Unlike you, Ms Abbott doesn’t live with an expert, but she is doing an admirable job. Isn’t that right, Ms Abbott?’
If he was trying to make me feel good, it wasn’t working. ‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Her project’s only hard because her family are freaks,’ said Sarah.
‘Sarah,’ I said, turning to face her. ‘My difficulties are caused by the controversy surrounding my great-grandfather’s death.’ I tried to sound like I knew what I was talking about.
The Newt’s eyes gleamed. ‘Tell us more, Ms Abbott.’
‘It’ll ruin the surprise, Mr Newtown.’ I wasn’t ready to talk about Charlie or the controversy.
‘As if.’ Neanderthal sneered. ‘You’ve done bugger all.’
‘You know what, Nathan, I don’t have to explain myself to you.’ I thrust what I called my Charlie folder at him. ‘But for your information, my great-grandfather fought in World War II and was captured at Rabaul.’
Neanderthal snatched the folder. ‘Rabaul? Dad craps on about that place all the time.’
‘Mr Thackery—’
‘He does, Sir. And about the ship those guys were on.’
‘The Montevideo Maru.’ I took the folder back not sure if I was pleased or horrified that Neanderthal knew about Charlie.
For the first time, Neanderthal’s eyes weren’t filled with hate. ‘So your grandfather was on that?’
‘Great-grandfather.’
‘Cool.’
‘Sterling effort, Ms Abbott.’ The Newt checked his watch. ‘Our time together is drawing to a close. Keep working on these projects at home.’
The bell blared through the speakers.
The Newt gathered his books. ‘Until next we meet.’
As I walked to the door, anger bubbled at my throat. Even Neanderthal had heard about Rabaul and the Montevideo Maru. Charlie was my great-grandfather. I should have known about it before now. I brushed against a shoulder.
‘Watch it, Dyke,’ snarled Sarah.
My ears buzzed. ‘Bugger off, Skank.’
I didn’t so much walk home as stomp home.
I was over it. Over listening for clues in the silence between people’s words.
Over my family’s refusal to talk about Dad and Charlie.
Over snooping.
No more silences and shadows. I wanted honesty and openness.
Chapter Thirty
The sight of Batty making a pot of tea improved my mood.
‘Something smells good, Grandma,’ I said, slipping the schoolbag from my shoulder.
‘I baked this afternoon, Darcy.’ Batty held up a plate of jam drops. ‘Yum! Where’s Granny?’
‘Looking for a knitting pattern,’ said Misery, rummaging through the bookshelf.
I carried the biscuits and teapot to the table. ‘What are you knitting? ’
Misery grunted. ‘Me? I’m far too busy to knit. It’s for Grandma.’
‘I’m knitting jumpers for African AIDS orphans.’ Batty joined me at the table. ‘I heard on radio today that there are over ten million of the poor little mites. Ten million! And there’s such a lack of money to help them that the babies are wrapped in newspapers for warmth. Can you imagine?’
My jaw just about clunked on the table. ‘I didn’t know you could knit, Grandma.’
Batty smiled as she poured the tea. ‘I haven’t knitted since you were a baby.’ She stopped pouring. ‘Would you rather a cold drink, Darcy?’
Misery always served me tea without asking.
‘Tea’s fine, Grandma.’ If it hadn’t been for the storm cloud hovering over Misery, I’d have asked Batty about Charlie.
‘I’m going to knit baby blankets and teddies, too.’ She sipped her tea.
I grinned.
‘Sensational idea, Grandma.’
‘And who will buy the wool?’ muttered Misery. She pulled out a chair and sat with us.
‘I will. Mum will, too. When she comes back,’ I said, reaching for a strawberry jam drop.
Misery flicked her hand at the biscuits.
‘Mind how many of those you eat, Darcy. We can’t have your mother coming home to you podgy.’
My skin prickled.
Batty tutted. ‘Margaret, don’t be so ridiculous.’
Misery sat straighter, as though she was a marionette pulled up by the puppeteer. ‘I’m just saying—’
The doorbell cut through the thick air.
‘That’ll be Laura,’ I said. ‘Okay if I bring her in while I change?’
Misery, face waxy, nodded.
Laura and I tu
rned left at the dunes. The sand gleamed under the afternoon sun.
‘Sensational timing, Laura. Misery was about to blow.’
‘She looked like she’d been chewing thorns.’
‘And she was about to spit them at Batty.’
‘So what was wrong? Did you tell her about what you found today?’
‘Are you kidding?’ I screeched. ‘No way would I talk about that to Misery.’
Laura studied my face. ‘But you’d talk to Batty about it?’
‘Think I’ll go barefoot.’ As I bent to pull off my socks and runners, I dislodged a piece of green glass from the sand, the edges blasted smooth by the ocean. ‘What if this was washed up from a shipwreck, from the war or something? I said, rolling the glass between my fingers.
‘Bet it’s just a piece of a Heineken bottle some fisherman tossed overboard.’ Laura pulled a strand of her hair from her mouth. ‘Darce, do you want to talk?’
‘Why?’
‘Because that stuff about Charlie was pretty intense.’
A gust of wind swirled, making the sand dance around our ankles.
‘You know what? Everything’s intense—Misery, Mum, Neanderthal. And Charlie. And I’m over it. Every time I try to find an answer, I just create more questions.’ I kicked a sandcastle, complete with moat and seaweed flags on turrets. ‘I’m so … frustrated.’ I charged towards a flock of seagulls, scattering them in a swirling mass of white. Fists clenched I yelled at the ocean. ‘I’m. Sick. Of. It. All of it.’
Laura watched, her eyes filled with worry.
Tiredness swamped my anger. ‘The silences. The lies.’ My voice was a whisper. ‘Loz, I don’t want to know how Charlie died any more. I want to know how he lived.’
When I returned, Misery’s house had been plunged into a winter that no heater could warm. Misery stood at the stove, not so much stirring the gravy as beating it. Batty sat in her chair by the window, knitting.
While Misery’s face was murderous, Batty’s was serene. We ate dinner under crushing silence. The shoe-leather-tough steak and lumpy gravy did nothing for the atmosphere or my mood.
‘There’s no dessert, not after all those biscuits,’ announced Misery, taking her plate to the sink. She scraped the leftovers into the compost bucket.
As I reached for Batty’s plate, she raised her eyebrows and smiled.
Misery must have seen her. She stalked from the room, slamming the door behind her. The sound of the slam still hung in the air when she scuttled back into the kitchen.
As soon as I finished the dishes, I escaped. I’d only been in my room long enough to kick off my shoes when Misery barged in.
‘I’m having an early night. I think it’s best you do the same.’
What she really meant was ‘If you try to speak to Grandma, I’ll hear you’.
‘Night, Granny,’ I said, to the now-closed door.
Now what? It was too early to sleep and I didn’t feel like reading.
I took the photos of Charlie from my drawer and lay them on the bed.
Formal Charlie. Friend Charlie. Family Charlie.
I shuffled the order, trying to piece together a true image of him. But there were still too many holes, too many questions.
Frustration nibbled at my brain. I decided to design the front cover of my project. Even though I’d been gathering information, I hadn’t started the project.
The title was simple—Darcy Charles Fletcher. Simple, but to the point.
The colour scheme was tougher. Normally I was good with mixing and matching colour, but nothing seemed right.
I shoved my open pencil case aside. A rainbow of pencils and textas scattered across the carpet. I stared at them until the colours blurred into a murky brown. The brown of the box I’d collected from Batty’s.
I scratched my head until my scalp burnt.
This would be the last time. The very last time.
I tiptoed to the door and eased it open.
No shaft of light shone under Misery’s closed door.
The sound of the TV—a deep male voice, crashing waves and seals barking—drifted up the hall from the lounge.
Palms sweaty, I crept forward.
Chapter Thirty-one
By the time I reached Batty’s room, the thud of my heart had become a drum roll. When a floorboard groaned under my foot, my heart just about exploded. I waited for Misery to burst from her room. But nothing happened.
I slipped into Batty’s room, closing the door behind me. In the darkness, I fumbled to switch on the lamp beside her bed.
Now to find the box. On a whim, I reached under Batty’s bed. The box was where I’d left it.
I ran my hands over its surface, feeling the dents and cracks of age. With my thumbs, I tried the lid. This time it opened, the hinges squeaking.
The scent of lavender, old paper and the smell of Batty’s unit wafted out. Now I knew what the smell was—sorrow.
‘Please’ rolled through my mind as I brushed aside the dried lavender. Underneath was a copy of the photo of Charlie I’d found in Misery’s drawer.
My body buzzed with excitement.
Beneath Charlie was a second black and white photograph, stuck to grey cardboard. Grim-faced soldiers stood in rows, just as we did for our school photos. But instead of the school, rolling hills and gum trees were behind them. A blackboard in the middle of the front row read C Coy 2/22 Battalion.
I flipped the photo over, hoping to find a list of names. There was only a purple re-order stamp.
I’d just have to find Charlie myself. Leaning towards the light, I searched the rows. The slouch hats shadowing the men’s faces made it tough. I found him on my second search—last row, five men across.
‘Aha,’ I said.
‘Aha, indeed,’ said a cold voice.
Startled, I dropped the photo.
Misery stood in the doorway, her lemon dressing gown buttoned to her neck. ‘What do you think you are doing?
My hands shook.
‘I’m just—’
‘Prying!’ The word stabbed my heart. ‘Into other people’s business.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then what would you call it?’ Misery’s voice reminded me of a snake slithering towards its prey.
‘I’m…’ As I searched for words, I picked up the photo.
Lips pressed into a hard line, Misery tapped her index finger against her folded arms. ‘Well?’
Something clicked in my brain. With slow movements, I placed the photo in the box and the box on Batty’s bed. I stood and faced Misery. ‘I’m trying to find out about Charlie.’
‘Charlie?’ Misery reeled back. ‘Show some respect,’ she screeched, her face seeming to swell like a balloon.
I refused to look away. ‘How can I show respect for a shadow?
‘Shad—You have no right.’
‘I have every right.’ I pressed my calves against Batty’s bed for support. ‘He’s part of me.’
‘How dare you,’ hissed Misery. ‘After everything I’ve done for you.’
I snorted. I couldn’t help it.
Misery’s eyes bulged. She stepped forward, her face contorted. ‘You insolent, ungrateful…’ Red crept up her face to the roots of her grey hair. ‘Who listened to your mother moan and cry? Who sorted out her life after your father died? Who? Me!’ Spit flew from her mouth. ‘And who cared for you? Me! And what thanks do I get? None! You’re just like your father. You appal me.’
‘You leave my parents out of this,’ I yelled, fighting the urge to punch her.
She sneered. Her words lashed like a whip. ‘Pathetic. That’s what he was and so are you. Bringing misery and pain into my home.’
‘Misery was here before Dad or me. You’re misery.’
Misery staggered against the doorframe. She looked at me with pure hatred. ‘You pry into my father’s death, then—’
‘His death? You think I’m trying to work out how he died?’ I shook my head. ‘You so don’t get it.
I want to know how he lived. If he played cricket. Was he left or right-handed. Did he like beef better than lamb? His favourite colour—’
‘Green.’ Batty’s voice cut through the mist of my rage. She hobbled past Misery and picked up the box from the bed. She clutched it to her chest. ‘He loved the green of spring hills and new leaves on oak trees. Fresh, gaudy green.’
‘Proud of yourself, Darcy?’ Misery pointed at Batty. ‘If she takes a turn in the night, it will be your doing.’
‘If I do take a turn in the night and die, Margaret, who will remember Charlie?’ Batty looked tiny and frail. ‘I want Darcy to know about Charlie.’
Misery snorted. ‘It’s not your decision to make.’
Tears filled my eyes. ‘Don’t speak to her like that.’
‘Don’t tell me how to treat my mother. Don’t. You. Dare.’ Misery glared at me as though I was a pile of rotting garbage. ‘You sicken me. Get out of my sight.’
I rushed past her to Boof’s old room, slamming the door behind me. Blood whooshed in my ears. She hated Dad. She hated me. And she was horrible to Grandma. I wasn’t staying here a minute longer.
I snatched my phone from under the pillow and punched in the number.
‘Hello?’ said a sleepy voice.
‘Boof. It’s me, Darcy. Come get me. Please.’
Chapter Thirty-two
My packed bags were lined up by my bedroom door, as solemn as the row of soldiers in the photo. I waited on the bed, back pressed against the wall and knees hugged to my chest. Between my feet lay the photos I’d taken from Batty’s. Regret and a heavy, numb feeling had replaced my anger. The light that had appeared in Batty’s eyes had gone, because of me. And because of me, Misery was more filled with hatred and fury than ever.
Head buried in my hands, I waited for tears. But they wouldn’t come. Instead, the numbness grew.
The knock at the door was different to Misery or Batty’s tap.
‘Gawd almighty, Darce, you’ve detonated a bomb, mate,’ said Boof, stepping into my room.
A gluggy lump clogged my throat. ‘Mum warned me, Boof, and I ignored her.’
Boof sat on the edge of my bed. He squeezed my foot. ‘It had to happen sooner or later.’ He picked up the photo of Charlie and Alby and studied it. ‘The whole business is bloody ridiculous.’
