Taking a Chance

by Deborah Burrows

  He set up another piece of wood, raised the axe and reduced it to splinters. ‘It’s words that can save the world, Nellie, words that can make a real difference, not fighting or even hard labour. You’re bright enough to use the words to do so, and I’ll not see you waste your talents.’

  And so, because of the iron will of my uncle, I went to the University of Western Australia and I spent three magical years studying literature among its lovely sandstone buildings by the calm, clear waters of the Swan River. My days were marked by the hands of the clock in the tall tower, waiting for the Christmas trees to blaze orange against green lawns every year around exam time. Seek wisdom it said on the bust of Socrates in the quad, and Verily it is by beauty that we come to wisdom was chiselled into the back of the stone seat by the reflection pond. I owed it all to my beloved Uncle Pat, who died three months before I graduated.

  ‘I never got to university,’ said Johnny, after hearing my story. ‘School of hard knocks – that’s my alma mater. My sister’s at Berkeley, though, and she loves it.’ He gave me a searching look. ‘You happy being a columnist? Writing about fashion?’

  I stared him straight in the eye. ‘I couldn’t get full-time work as a feature writer or reporter. Sometimes you have to compromise.’

  I had left university all fired up to be the best reporter that Perth had ever seen, but the newspaper editors refused to recognise my potential. My first job was working three days a week on the Daily News as a junior reporter, covering the lower courts. I only got the job because there was a shortage of reporters with the men away at war. It had been a real eye-opener to a ‘nice’ Catholic girl like me to be exposed to prosecutions for keeping unlicensed premises for prostitution, reporting what the ‘uncontrollable children’ did to warrant being sent to reform school and listening to suits in the Married Women’s Court for separation on the grounds of cruelty.

  ‘You know what I think?’ Aunty May had said, one evening at tea in April 1941, after I’d complained that the paper would never take me on full-time, or give me more interesting work. ‘I think you’d be good at writing a column for women. You’re such a marvellous dressmaker and you’re always so fashionably dressed. You know a lot about make-up and beauty products, too. Women want to know about that sort of thing, especially when there’s rationing. It’d be much more ladylike than covering the courts. Father Tierney was saying to me just the other day that he’s worried about your moral health in such an environment.’

  I couldn’t care less what Father Tierney felt about my moral health, but I listened to her because I wasn’t enjoying the work; there was no real skill in the writing, and it was depressing and unrewarding.

  ‘You’ll need to make your own luck, Nellie,’ Aunty May had continued. ‘I’ve made a study of it, and the Marvel’s the only paper that doesn’t have anything like that. Why don’t you suggest it to the editor?’

  I decided to do as my aunt suggested and make my own luck. I dressed carefully, in my favourite blue linen frock, with a white gem straw hat and white lace gloves, parted my dark hair at the side and brushed it into a smooth bob, just like a brunette Veronica Lake. I had a folder with cuttings I’d taken from magazines and newspapers, together with my own thoughts on issues such as health, beauty and fashion.

  ‘I want to see the editor,’ I’d told the curly-haired receptionist in the Marvel’s dingy offices, and sat down to wait. It took two hours, but Dave Gleddings finally saw me. Once I had his attention I just kept on talking. In the end, he gave in. ‘Nell’s Corner: Fashion and Beauty’ was very popular now, and what with the shortage of male reporters, my job on the paper was secure.

  I tried to explain it to Johnny, who listened carefully and nodded in the right places.

  ‘Why don’t you ask your editor if you could try writing a feature?’ he asked. ‘There are lots of great human interest stories in a war. If they’re as short-staffed as you say, there must be scope to give you different assignments.’

  I hesitated, playing with the scone on my plate. ‘I suppose I could,’ I said. ‘But I’ve never written a feature.’ My voice suddenly sounded so faint and unsure, which annoyed me and I continued in a stronger tone. ‘Perhaps I’m not cut out for it. Interviewing people, insinuating myself into someone’s life – it’s intrusive and I don’t think I’d like it.’

  When I glanced up at Johnny, he wasn’t smiling. ‘Challenge is what keeps a job interesting,’ he said. ‘Before I was a war correspondent I used to do feature articles. Sure you have to talk to people, even when they’re unwilling. You learn how to get beyond the initial unfriendliness, learn how to coax a story out of someone. But if you do it right, then you can make a real difference to people’s views, occasionally to people’s lives. Sometimes it’s difficult, sometimes it’s even dangerous, but at least you never feel that you’re wasting your time.’

  My chin came up. ‘I’m not wasting my time,’ I said, glaring at him. ‘I’m good at what I do. The women who read my column appreciate the effort I put in.’ My voice was brusque, but I wondered if Johnny was right, and if I was betraying Uncle Pat – and myself – by settling for the easy option.

  Johnny changed the subject. ‘Do you still live with your uncle’s family?’

  ‘I’m the only one at home now. Biddie’s married, so it’s just me and Aunty May in the house.’

  ‘Until you marry this lawyer guy.’

  ‘Until then,’ I said.

  ‘And he’s called Sinclair?’ Johnny asked.

  I nodded briefly.

  ‘Presbyterian?’

  I nodded again, wondering why he was so interested.

  ‘I bet Aunty May doesn’t approve of him not being Catholic,’ he said.

  I glanced down at my hands. Aunty May might be horrified at the idea I might marry a non-Catholic, but Rob was everything I wanted: kind, sensible, intelligent. I could settle down with Rob, live my life in peace. I longed for a home of my own, a home with Rob.

  Johnny cleared his throat and I looked up, into his eyes. They were like amber, I thought. They reminded me of Uncle Pat’s amber tie pin, the one he had bought on his voyage out to Australia.

  ‘But he’s in Melbourne, you said.’ Johnny had a nice speaking voice, his accent was pleasant and his voice was a clear baritone. ‘So won’t you agree to have dinner with me? Please, Nell.’

  He seemed sincere, but he’d picked me up in the gardens with an ease that showed he was very experienced in dealing with women. Johnny Horvath was very good company and very attractive and I did want to see him again. If I was honest with myself, I wanted to see him too much, and it worried me how quickly this stranger had got under my skin. Surely it was better to nip this – whatever it was – in the bud now. So I shook my head. My voice was a little high, but I sounded determined.

  ‘I’m practically engaged. It wouldn’t be right. Sorry.’

  ohnny didn’t push the point, and instead became charmingly entertaining company, telling me stories about his time as a war correspondent in the Philippines, New Caledonia and New Guinea. But he refused to be drawn on his reasons for coming to Perth, or what the blonde woman had told him.

  ‘When did your father go to America?’ I asked.

  ‘In 1900, when he was nineteen – the same year your uncle came to Australia. Pop thought that the streets in America were paved with gold. They weren’t. He ended up in Chicago as a print-setter with the Tribune, eventually got married and settled down. I was born there in 1914.’

  So he was twenty-nine.

  ‘And he got you a job at the Tribune?’

  Johnny nodded. ‘As a copy boy to start with. Later I became a reporter. Joined United Press when Pearl Harbor was bombed.’

  ‘And then became a war correspondent.’

  ‘It’s not all fun and glamour, being a war correspondent, you know,’ he said with a grimace. ‘It’s not like the movies. There’re bombs, mud, mosquitoes, rain, sunburn, prickly heat and other such delights. Once, I’d just fini
shed washing a pair of shorts and a shirt when an air raid began. I was standing, gawping at the sky looking for Japanese planes, when I felt warmth behind me, turned and saw my tent up in flames.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I said.

  His smile was rueful. ‘You know, nothing burns so quickly and completely as a tent that contains all your worldly possessions. At that moment I was left with a towel – wrapped around my waist – a pair of boots and two pieces of wet laundry.’

  ‘I read your Bataan stories,’ I said, trying not to imagine Johnny Horvath wearing only a towel around his waist. ‘They were very moving.’

  ‘It was a remarkable experience. Awe-inspiring. The Ameri­can troops were outnumbered six to one by the Japanese on Bataan. Many of them were only in their late teens – boys fighting their first war and doing it with their backs to the sea. Fighting on courage alone.’ Johnny smiled, but his eyes were sad.

  I felt tears in my eyes for the American boys who’d had to fight with their backs to the sea. Who’d had to learn to be brave because it was all they had. And I thought of Danny and Frank who were together with the 7th Division in New Guinea, and sweet Charlie who had trained as a tough, independent commando and of Mick who was a flight crew engineer with the RAAF and had been lucky to escape with only shrapnel wounds to his legs when Darwin was bombed by the Japanese in February last year. And of Rob, of course, who was quiet, studious and frighteningly intelligent, and not a born fighter like my cousins.

  ‘But it’s the medical staff you really have to admire,’ Johnny continued. ‘The nurses and doctors cared for those men at base hospitals in thick, malaria-infested jungles. Performed operations in tents with dive bombers screaming overhead.’ There was a faraway look in his eyes. ‘The nurses were amazing.’

  ‘You called them the Angels of Bataan in your article.’

  ‘I didn’t make up that title, but they were like angels. Few of them had seen combat before. They bathed in streams, slept unsheltered except for trees, had foxholes by their beds. Yet they were always cheerful, never complained. Those gals really were angels.’

  ‘Not all of them escaped, did they?’ I said. ‘When the Japanese overran the Philippines, I mean.’

  His face became grim. ‘Some were able to leave before it fell in May last year – there was some incredibly brave action by our pilots to fly them out – but more than seventy are now prisoners of the Japanese. Some of them are close friends of mine. God knows what they’re having to endure.’ He shook his head.

  We were hearing terrible stories about what the Japanese were doing to prisoners and I felt very sad for the brave women. Sad for all the prisoners of war, including Tommy Livesey from my street, who had been taken prisoner on Java last year and was one of more than twenty thousand Australians who were in Japanese prison camps.

  I glanced at my watch. It was quarter to five and we were the only customers left in the cafe. It was time I was going. I opened my mouth to murmur a thank you for the tea and company, when there was a commotion as the door was pushed open violently. A group of sailors and girls were laughing and talking loudly and complaining about the rain. Startled, I turned to look out of the window and saw, with some dismay, that it had started to rain heavily. That was a nuisance, as I didn’t have an umbrella or a raincoat. The footpath outside the cafe was now crowded with people sheltering under awnings, mostly men in uniform with girls clinging to their arms. I saw a few Aussie slouch hats, but many more American sailors.

  The ‘crowd’ that had come into the Colour Patch resolved itself into two US petty officers – submariners by their uniforms, and both into their thirties – and two young girls who looked no more than seventeen. One girl was podgy, pudding-faced and brown-haired; she was wearing a mauve frock and matching coat. Her friend was prettier, buxom and dressed in a blue and white striped skirt and a white blouse with a teddy-bear coat for warmth. A square of navy blue material was pinned to the top of her fair hair to pass as a hat. It reminded me of the black cap that the Chief Justice had worn, and I decided that I would definitely do a piece about using a square of material for a hat.

  ‘Where’s your little friend?’ The taller petty officer was looking around. ‘Where’s Evie? Did she get left behind?’ He was a big man, brutish-looking I thought.

  The plump girl snorted. ‘Dunno. We don’t really know her. She’ll turn up if she’s hungry. Come on, I want something to eat. You promised to buy us tea and cake.’

  ‘Here I am, Lootenant.’

  It was a soft voice and the words were slightly slurred. A slim, pretty girl with shy eyes had quietly opened the door and followed them in. She was dressed in a cheap dress of

  floral green and brown with a black bolero over it. A tiny green skullcap sat on top of a riot of blonde hair that hadn’t been combed in a while.

  ‘Baby, I’ve told you, I’m not a lieutenant.’ The sailor’s voice was aggrieved.

  She giggled. ‘I just like saying it. Lootenant. It’s funny.’

  His laugh seemed forced. ‘It’s you that’s funny. You’re a funny little thing, Evie.’

  She giggled again as he pulled her close and gave her a hug, but I noticed that she moved away from him as quickly as she could, slipping into a chair next to the plump girl.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she announced in the precise way that usually indicated someone was tipsy.

  I whispered to Johnny, ‘That girl can’t be more than fifteen. And I think she’s drunk.’

  The situation had me worried. None of the three girls seemed exactly sober. The buxom girl was still standing, clinging to the second sailor. He was slightly younger than the other man, with very short dark hair and a pugnacious air.

  Johnny shook his head. ‘What is it with Australian girls? They’re crazy over us Americans. It’s the same in Melbourne.’ He frowned. ‘I think you’re right about the little girl in green.’

  ‘Don’t touch me there, Larry.’ The buxom girl was pushing at the younger sailor. ‘I told you I don’t like it.’ She gave him a vicious shove and he moved away slightly.

  ‘You didn’t mind it when we were in the park just now. Damn rain.’ His face was a mottled red, and he was scowling. ‘Sit down, why don’t ya?’

  ‘Shirley’s only bunging it on to get attention,’ the plump girl said dismissively. She slapped her hands on the table. ‘I want cake.’

  Alma had emerged from the kitchen and was moving towards them. ‘I want cake,’ the girl repeated imperiously.

  Alma flicked a disapproving glance at them all, marched over to the door and turned the ‘open’ sign that was hanging there to ‘closed’.

  ‘We’re closing in ten minutes,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to be quick.’

  Shirley sat down sullenly. Larry sat next to her, frowning. The younger girl, Evie, had ended up next to the older sailor. She was leaning against him, her head lolling on his shoulder as he ran his hand lightly up and down her arm. I didn’t like the look on his face as he did so. It seemed calculating and cold.

  The plump girl sat up straighter. ‘We’d like cake all around, with coffee for the gentlemen.’ She looked at the older sailor. ‘Is that all right, Earl?’

  He nodded. ‘Sure it is, Ida.’

  She went on. ‘We’ll also have a pot of tea for three.’

  Alma sniffed. ‘What sort of cake? All that’s left is spice cake and a couple of pieces of chocolate cake.’

  ‘Chocolate cake,’ said Ida quickly.

  ‘Whatever you have,’ said Larry, with a snarl. ‘Enough for us all. And quickly.’

  ‘Quickly,’ repeated Evie, and giggled.

  Earl pulled her closer and I thought I saw her shudder, but when he glanced up and caught me staring I looked away, embarrassed. I had no idea what to do. Evie was obviously too young and I was uneasy about what might happen to her after they left the cafe. It was almost night and there were plenty of hotels around that wouldn’t ask many questions. If you put some lipstick on the girl and tidied her up she might pas
s for sixteen, even eighteen at a pinch. I didn’t like the look of either man, but the older girls at least appeared able to stand up for themselves. Evie seemed very vulnerable.

  ‘Johnny,’ I whispered, leaning towards him, ‘I think we should do something.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. But that girl Evie is certainly not sixteen.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask the waitress to ring the authorities?’ he said slowly.

  I bit my lip. Girls had been behaving badly with servicemen since the war started and with Americans from the moment they first arrived in Perth. With appalling regularity the Marvel reported proceedings in the Children’s Court where girls of Evie’s age had been running around with, often sleeping with, servicemen. The girls were declared ‘uncontrollable’ or ‘at risk’ under the Child Welfare Act and sent to detention centres. I didn’t want to be responsible for Evie being detained, but I didn’t trust the motives of that sailor.

  ‘It sure is fun having Americans in town,’ said Ida, in an American twang.

  ‘Sure it is, baby!’ replied Earl, still running his hand up and down Evie’s arm. She seemed to have fallen asleep.

  ‘But it’s exhausting,’ went on Ida. ‘Shirley and me are all worn out, we’ve been whooping it up so much. I think I need to sleep for a week. When do you go back to sea?’

  He shrugged. ‘Too soon.’

  ‘Stop it, Larry.’ Shirley sounded very annoyed now and shifted her chair away from him. I wondered what he was doing, because Shirley was looking flushed and angry.

  ‘Jeez, Shirley, you’re no fun tonight,’ said Larry.

  Evie raised her head. ‘Silly,’ she said. ‘It’s not night yet.’ She giggled softly and replaced her head on Earl’s shoulder.

  ‘Not yet, baby.’ Earl’s voice was low.

  It was that low voice, slightly tinged with anticipation, that decided me.

  I murmured to Johnny, ‘I can’t sit here and do nothing. Someone has to look out for her.’