Finding Darcy

by Sue Lawson

  Batty passed me the photos I’d seen in her room. Charlie on his own and the 2/22nd Battalion.

  ‘Charlie was part of C Company. That’s what C Coy means,’ said Batty, tapping the blackboard in the front row with her wrinkled finger. ‘Did you pick him?’

  I nodded.

  ‘This was taken at Trawool, before they marched to Bonegilla. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘I looked it up. It’s near Albury. It’s such a long way from here.’

  ‘Even further in 1941, Darcy. There was a family day at Bonegilla, before the men were shipped to Rabaul. The children and I caught the train to Melbourne, and another from Melbourne to Albury the following day. Two days there and two back for a few hours. But it was worth it. It was the last time I saw him. It was the first time Charlie saw Artie and the last time we saw Charlie…’

  The next photos were of their wedding. One of Charlie and Batty, stern faced and rigid, the other of Batty laughing while Charlie adjusted her veil. ‘He laughed and joked all day,’ she said, her eyes watery.

  Batty handed me black and white photos of a bay, a harbour and of a volcano with a short ‘This is Rabaul.’ She lingered over the yellowed newspaper cuttings. The headlines read Blackened Faces for Invasion, Terrific Odds Faced At Rabaul—1,399 Against 17,000 and, dated September 1945, Many Victorians From Rabaul Lost At Sea.

  ‘You know how I found out he was dead, Darcy? I read it in the paper.’

  ‘So that’s true. That it was in the paper before the official telegrams were sent.’

  ‘Absolutely. Damned incompetence.’ She almost tossed another yellow piece of paper at me. Her voice became hard. ‘This is the official telegram. Delivered in October, over a month after the newspaper article. Makes me feel sick to see it.’ Anger swallowed her sorrow. ‘The whole thing was handled appallingly.’

  It is with deep regret that I have to inform you that Fletcher, D.C. became missing 1st July, 1942 and is for official purposes presumed to be dead and desire to convey to you the profound sympathy of the Minister for the Army.

  Even though I’d read about the telegrams at school, holding it in my hand made it different. Real. And so sad. That gaping hole feeling behind my heart returned. ‘The wording’s so…’

  ‘Cruel,’ snapped Batty, sounding more like Misery. ‘Didn’t even sign it.’ She snatched it from me and shoved it back in the box.

  I searched my brain for the right words, but nothing would come. Instead of speaking, I rubbed Batty’s rounded shoulders.

  She crumpled forward, holding her head in one hand. When she straightened to face me, tears filled her eyes. ‘In my heart of hearts, I knew he was dead when I hadn’t heard from him. But I refused to believe it, not even when I read the paper. I kept hoping…’ Her chin quivered. ‘Then the telegram arrived. I shut down, Darcy. I forced myself out of bed to milk, fussed around the kitchen, milked again and went back to bed. I didn’t laugh or cry. And I didn’t talk to Alice, Margaret or Artie. Unless they mentioned Charlie. Then I flew into a rage.’ Batty pulled a hankie from her sleeve and blew her nose.

  ‘If it’s too painful, Grandma, I understand.’

  ‘I need to do this, Darcy.’

  Next was a black and white postcard of a grass house on stilts surrounded by round-bellied children and palm trees. Taking my hand from Batty’s shoulder, I flipped the postcard over. It was from Charlie, dated 7 January, 1942.

  I read the rolling script, about the yellow bs overhead and how it wasn’t anything he and the troops couldn’t handle. His words ‘won’t be long until I’m home’ made my chest feel tight.

  ‘He sounds so sure he’d be home.’

  Batty nodded. ‘They were being bombed by the Japanese day and night by then.’

  The postcard made me sad, but the beaded white belt she took from the box snapped my heart. Written in red beads was To My Darling Daughter, love Daddy, 1941. When I curled the belt into my palms, I knew sorrow not only had a smell, but a weight.

  ‘Did he make it?’

  Batty shook her head. ‘No, he had one of the natives, a Tolai, make one for each of the children. This one is Margaret’s.’

  ‘It’s so…’ My words trailed off. Sad sounded pathetic. ‘No wonder, Granny is—’

  ‘A misery?’ said Batty. ‘Perhaps. But she’d have been miserable anyway. It’s her nature. I won’t have Charlie’s death being blamed for that.’

  She handed me a sheet of thin paper, yellowing with age, pasted to a piece of cardboard. ‘This is the last thing I received from him.’ Batty’s voice faltered. ‘Poor devil was dead by the time it reached us.’

  VX23813 D.C. FLETCHER 2/22 INF BN April, 1942 My Darling Betty, Alice, Margaret and Artie, I am a prisoner of war at Rabaul and under the protection of the Imperial Japanese Army. We are being well treated. Hoping you are in good health. ‘Til we next meet. My dearest love, Charlie xx

  ‘I read about these. The Japanese dropped them from planes over Port Moresby. Most were lost.’

  ‘He used to write such interesting letters from Trawool and Bonegilla. And from Rabaul, at first.’ Batty traced his signature with her finger. ‘I can’t help but think he was ill when he wrote this.’

  She already knew, I didn’t need to tell her the details. I swallowed the words malaria, dysentery, dengue, beriberi.

  The few scenes I could remember from Dad’s funeral flashed through my mind. The deep, gaping hole surrounded by fake grass. Mum’s sobs. Misery’s steel grip on my hand.

  ‘Grandma, you know how you said there were no funerals or graves, how did you say goodbye to Charlie?’

  ‘There was a memorial service in Northcote, but it was too far to travel.’

  I frowned. It took Mum and me under four hours to drive to Melbourne.

  As if reading my thoughts, Batty said, ‘You didn’t just zip up the highway to Melbourne in those days. The cars were slower, the roads worse, and the train took seven hours.’ She did one of those half-sigh, half-sob things. ‘I had the children and milking.’

  My chest ached. ‘I’m so sorry, Grandma.’

  Tears trickled down her face. ‘After all these years, Darcy, it still hurts.’

  ‘Poor Charlie. Poor you.’

  ‘Oi, we have a visitor,’ said Boof, strolling through the door holding a casserole dish. ‘And this visitor brings food.’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Misery, eyes like a frightened rabbit’s, slipped through the door.

  ‘Hello, Granny.’ I hoped I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.

  ‘How are you, Darcy?’ Misery spoke to the stove.

  ‘Good, thanks. Is that dinner?’ The question sounded more stupid aloud than it had in my head.

  Misery scowled. ‘What does it look like?’

  Batty tucked her hankie up her sleeve and patted my fist.

  Misery’s letters in the cubby flashed into my head. ‘I guess what I meant was, are you staying for dinner?’

  Misery looked from me to Batty to Boof. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mum. Stay and eat with us,’ said Boof, leaning against the sink.

  ‘Stay, Granny.’

  Misery chewed her lip. ‘I can’t be late.’

  ‘We won’t be,’ said Batty. ‘Let’s clear this away, Darcy.’

  Batty and I began layering her memories back in the box.

  Misery walked over.

  I held my breath.

  She reached for the wedding photo of Charlie adjusting Batty’s veil. ‘I haven’t seen this before.’

  ‘It’s one of my favourites.’ Batty smiled. ‘Look at those eyes, Margaret. Who does he remind you of?’

  Misery looked from the photo to me. ‘Darcy.’ Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘Grandma reckons I act a bit like him, too.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Misery, her eyebrows arched.

  ‘Definitely. It’s that laugh, Margaret, and her courage.’

  Batty’s look was a mixture of lo
ve and sorrow.

  ‘I suppose this is for your project, Darcy.’ Misery sounded defeated.

  ‘Not any more. Mum kind of banned me from doing it, after, you know…’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Batty slapped the table. ‘I un-ban you.’

  Misery folded her arms.

  ‘It’d be great to have his story written down, Darcy. For all of us,’ said Boof.

  ‘That’s settled then. Your project will be about Charlie.’ The colour had returned to Batty’s face. ‘Now, there are a few other things I want to discuss.’

  My stomach flipped. What now?

  ‘First of all, I am not incapable of making my own decisions or too frail to do anything. I’ve just been wallowing. Secondly, Margaret, I will be helping Darcy complete this project about Charlie.’ She stared at Misery, daring her to disagree.

  Misery sighed and nodded.

  ‘Finally,’ added Batty, her eyes twinkling. ‘I wish to be called what Darcy calls me. It was Charlie’s name for me, too.’

  Boof pulled a ‘look-out’ face.

  I chewed my bottom lip. Any ground I’d made up with Misery was about to be swallowed.

  ‘What do you call Mum, Darcy?’ asked Misery.

  I fidgeted in my seat, my face prickling. ‘Well, I…’

  Batty grinned. She was enjoying this. ‘Out with it Darcy.’

  ‘Batty,’ I muttered.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Misery.

  ‘I call Grandma, Batty.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Misery, her eyes wide and lips tight. ‘And you like this, Mum?’

  ‘Indeed, I do.’

  ‘Goodness,’ said Misery. ‘What do you call me?’

  My face flushed and panic flooded through me. ‘Granny,’ blurted Boof and Batty at the same time.

  After dinner, Batty sat in Boof’s recliner telling stories about Charlie. Not war stories, but stories about his life; how the milking stool splintered under him in the middle of milking one morning, how he and his friend Alby used to go camping and fox shooting at the bottom dam, and how he cried when he first held Alice and Misery. The photo I found was the first time he held Artie.

  Misery listened, face stern and arms folded, but when Batty told the story about Charlie losing his temper at a cow and punching it, Misery smiled.

  The stories were great, but they didn’t shake the ache in my heart—an ache for Batty, for Charlie. For the little girl who wrote letters to her dad.

  I knew what it was like to grow up without a father. TV advertisements showing perfect families laughing around a picnic table made me squirm and friends whingeing about their fathers made my hands curl into fists. Sometimes my mouth filled with a sour taste when a friend hugged their dad.

  While Batty insisted Misery would have been bitter anyway, I understood how Charlie’s death could make her worse.

  Mum might not talk about Dad, but at least I knew for sure he was dead and that he died at work. I’d even visited his grave.

  Batty and Misery never said goodbye to Charlie and had no grave to visit on his birthday or Father’s Day.

  ‘It’s time we left,’ said Misery, standing. ‘You need to be up early to milk, James.’

  I helped Grandma to her feet. ‘I’ll collect your dish, Granny, and your stuff, Gra—Batty.’

  ‘Darcy.’ The steel in Misery’s voice nailed me to where I stood.

  ‘Yes, Granny.’ I prepared for an attack.

  ‘Would you … Perhaps it would be best if you … to save James…’

  ‘She’s asking you to go home with her,’ said Boof, rolling his eyes.

  Batty beamed.

  I chewed my lips. What I needed more than anything was a chance to think, and Charlie’s old home seemed the best place for that. ‘Granny, if it’s okay with you and Boof, I’d like to stay here tonight. Can I come back tomorrow?’

  ‘May I,’ corrected Misery. ‘That would be suitable.’

  Enjoying another night under a doona instead of 75 blankets, I sifted through all I’d learnt.

  I knew what I wanted to do to help Misery and Batty heal.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  When I returned to Misery’s, Batty and I worked on my project. While I wrote and designed, Batty read the books Neanderthal’s father had lent me.

  Misery was never far away, wiping out the fridge or rearranging the saucepan cupboard.

  At one stage, when Batty and I were arguing over which shade of green pencil to use for the front cover, Misery bellowed, ‘Whose project is this anyway?’

  Batty and I both yelled, ‘Mine.’

  As Misery returned to dusting the bookshelf, I swore she smiled, just a little.

  Most nights after dinner, Misery banished the books. Batty decided to teach me to knit. While Misery watched whatever was on the ABC, I dropped stitches and poked the needle through the wrong side of stitches.

  Batty knitted a baby’s jumper in the time it took me to do five rows of plain stitch. Her eyes sparkled as she inspected my effort. ‘Darcy, that would make a wonderful fishing net. Perhaps you’d be better suited to baking.’

  While I sucked at knitting, baking was clearly my thing. Batty and I made jam drops, yo-yos, a passionfruit sponge and a pavlova.

  ‘You’re a natural, Darcy,’ said Batty, when I pulled my first solo batch of yo-yos from the oven.

  Misery still scowled and tutted her way around the house, especially when she decided Batty and I had tasted enough of our baking, but her barbs were less sharp.

  Mum called more often, too. Not that she spoke for long, or about anything important, but at least she phoned. I avoided any mention of projects or Charlie, and made sure Batty didn’t speak to her. Batty would have blurted it out for sure and I wasn’t ready to admit to Mum I’d broken the promise.

  ‘A truly fascinating subject, Ms Abbott,’ said The Newt, checking my progress in class. ‘I’m glad you decided to persist.’

  Neanderthal kept up with the Amazon and Mantis tags, but only when The Triplets, Eddie or Jack were around. When they weren’t he checked how I was going with the project too, almost as though it was his project as well.

  As for the rest of the class, in fact school, attention shifted from me to rumours that Toni Jamieson was having a baby. Whispers of ‘pregnant’ and ‘up the duff’ slipped around the room.

  Laura told me the SMS messages were running hot, too. Poor Toni. The toughest thing I had to do was hand up my project. After all the snooping, researching and fighting, I still didn’t know for sure what had happened to Charlie. Handing up my project with that hole in it was difficult.

  Batty had her own problems letting go of the project.

  ‘Ask Mr Newtown for an extension. We barely touched on training at Trawool and Bonegilla,’ said Batty, standing on the veranda with Laura and me.

  ‘Batty, our project is perfect.’ I hugged her. ‘We could always write a book about it. After you’ve helped me write an essay about Romeo and Juliet.’ I slung my backpack over my shoulder.

  Batty beamed. ‘I do love Shakespeare.’

  ‘Lucky one of us does,’ I said, walking up the drive with Laura.

  ‘Darcy,’ called Misery from the front door. ‘Remember, home early after school. We have much to do before your mother returns this evening.’

  ‘Sure, Granny.’ I waved.

  I shivered. The thought of Mum coming home made me feel strange. I mean, I couldn’t wait to see her, but what Boof called ‘The Box Incident’ lay between us like a sleeping tiger. The other thing that worried me about Mum’s return was Batty. I felt responsible for bringing her back to life. I didn’t want her to deflate and crumple if we weren’t together.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  ‘Batty!’ I bellowed, charging through the back door.

  ‘Darcy, for heaven’s sake, settle down.’ Misery shook her head.

  ‘Sorry, Granny. Where’s Batty?’

  ‘Coming to see where the fire is,’ said Batty. Her limp was bad and her face pale. Since �
��The Box Incident’, she and Misery had talked in the lounge room long after I’d gone to bed. I didn’t ask and they didn’t say, but I was sure they were talking about Charlie.

  ‘Batty, are you okay?’

  She rubbed her hip. ‘It’s just aching.’

  ‘Will you be okay for tomorrow?’

  Misery placed rags and two bottles of cleaning spray in the basket on the bench. ‘Darcy, Grandma might not make tomorrow’s RSL opening. We’ll take her to see the display another time.’

  ‘But Granny, she has to come. You both do. The Newt has asked me to read our project at the opening.’

  Batty’s smile added colour to her pale face. ‘Darcy, I’m so proud of you.’

  ‘It’s not just me.’ I shrugged. ‘Laura’s reading hers, too.’

  Batty hugged me. ‘I don’t care if the whole class is reading, I’m proud of you.’

  ‘I’m assuming The Newt is Mr Newtown,’ said Misery, shaking her head. ‘Congratulations, Darcy.’

  ‘Ahem,’ said Batty, eyebrows raised.

  Misery sighed. ‘Yes, well done, too, Mum.’

  ‘Won’t Maxine be delighted when we tell her this evening?’ said Batty, her eyes like fairy lights.

  ‘Actually, Batty, I’d like to surprise Mum, you know, at the opening.’ I wasn’t ready to admit to Mum I’d broken my promise. Maybe if she found out at the opening, she wouldn’t be angry.

  ‘Is that wise, Darcy?’ said Misery, frowning. ‘She may find it confronting.’

  ‘Granny if you’d rather I didn’t read tomorrow…’

  She wiped the spotless kitchen bench. ‘Thank you, Darcy.’

  Batty breath in was sharp.

  ‘I appreciate your offer.’ Misery stopped wiping.

  ‘However, I think it’s best if you read your project.’

  If I hadn’t been leaning against the table, I’d have fallen over.

  Batty pulled a ‘do-you-believe-that’ face.

  ‘Collect your things, Darcy. It’s time we left.’ Misery picked up the basket of cleaning gear and a green bag filled with ‘essentials’.

  In Boof’s room, my bags packed and lined up at the foot of the bed, I sent Mum a text message, asking when she’d be home.