Tomorrow 1 - When The War Began

by John Marsden

  ‘Well do you want to come?’

  He laughed then. ‘It sounds more fun than the concert.’

  Corrie had been puzzled when I’d said I wanted to ask Lee. We didn’t really hang round with him at school. He seemed a serious guy, very into his music, but I just thought he was interesting. I suddenly realised that we didn’t have that much time left at school, and I didn’t want to leave without getting to know people like Lee. There were people in our year who still didn’t know the names of everyone else in the form! And we were such a small school. I had this intense curiosity about some kids, and the more different they were to the people I normally hung around with, the more curious I was.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked. There was another long pause. Silence makes me uncomfortable, so I kept talking. ‘Do you want to ask your mum and dad?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll handle them. Yeah, I’ll come.’

  ‘You don’t sound all that keen.’

  ‘Hey, I’m keen! I was just thinking about the problems. But it’s cool, I’ll be there. What’ll I bring?’

  My last call was to Robyn.

  ‘Oh Ellie,’ she wailed. ‘It’d be great! But I’d never be allowed.’

  ‘Come on Robyn, you’re tough. Put the pressure on them.’

  She sighed. ‘Oh Ellie, you don’t know what my parents are like.’

  ‘Well ask them, anyway. I’ll wait on.’

  ‘OK.’

  After a few minutes I heard the bumping noises of the phone being picked up again, so I asked, ‘Well? Did you con them into it?’

  Unfortunately it was Mr Mathers who answered.

  ‘No Ellie, she hasn’t conned us into it.’

  ‘Oh Mr Mathers!’ I was embarrassed, but laughing too, cos I knew I could twist Mr Mathers round my pinkie.

  ‘Now what’s this all about, Ellie?’

  ‘Well, we thought it was time we showed independence and initiative and all those other good things. We want to do a bushwalk along Tailor’s Stitch for a few days. Get away from the sex and vice of Wirrawee into the clean wholesome air of the mountains.’

  ‘Hmm. And no adults?’

  ‘Oh Mr Mathers, you’re invited, as long as you’re under thirty, OK?’

  ‘That’s discrimination Ellie.’

  We kidded around for five minutes till he started getting serious. ‘You see Ellie, we just think you kids are a bit young to be careering around the bush on your own.’

  ‘Mr Mathers, what were you doing when you were our age?’

  He laughed. ‘All right, one to you. I was jackarooing at Callamatta Downs. That was before I got smart and put on a collar and tie.’ Mr Mathers was an insurance agent.

  ‘So, what we’re doing’s small time compared to jackarooing at Callamatta Downs!’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘After all, what’s the worst thing that could happen? Hunters in four-wheel drives? They’d have to come through our place, and Dad’d stop them. Bushfires? There’s so much rock up there we’d be safer than we would at home. Snakebite? We all know how to treat snakebite. We can’t get lost, cos Tailor’s Stitch is like a highway. I’ve been going up into that country since I could walk.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘How about we take out insurance with you Mr Mathers? Would you say yes then? Is it a deal?’

  Robyn rang back the next night to say it was a deal, even without the insurance. She was pleased and excited. She’d had a long conversation with her parents; the best one ever, she said. This was the biggest thing they’d ever trusted her on, so she was keen for it to work out. ‘Oh Ellie, I hope there’s no disasters,’ she kept saying.

  The funny thing about it was that if parents ever had a daughter they could trust it was the Mathers and Robyn, but they didn’t seem to have worked it out yet The biggest problem she was ever likely to give them was being late to church. And that’d probably be because she was helping a boy scout across the road.

  Things kept going well. Mum and I were in town shopping, Saturday morning, and we ran into Fi and her mum. The two mums had a long serious conversation while Fi and I looked in Tozers’ window and tried to eavesdrop. Mum was doing a lot of reassuring. ‘Very sensible,’ I heard her say. ‘They’re all very sensible.’ Luckily she didn’t mention Homer’s latest trick: he’d just been caught pouring a line of solvent across the road and lighting it from his hiding place when a car got close. He’d done it half a dozen times before he got caught. I couldn’t imagine the shock it must have given the drivers of the cars.

  Anyway, whatever Mum said to Fi’s mum worked, and I was able to cross off the question mark next to Fi’s name. Our list of eight was down to seven, but they were all definite and we were happy with them. Well, we were happy with ourselves, and the other five were good. I’ll try to describe them the way they were then – or the way I thought they were, because of course they’ve changed, and my knowledge of them has changed.

  For instance, I always thought of Robyn as fairly quiet and serious. She got effort certificates at school every year, and she was heavily into church stuff, but I knew there was more to her than that She liked to win. You could see it at sport. We were in the same netball team and honestly, I was embarrassed by some of the things she did Talk about determined. The moment the game started she was like a helicopter on heat swooping and darting around everywhere, bumping people aside if she had to. If you got weak umpires Robyn could do as much damage in one game as an aerial gunship. Then the game would end and Robyn would be quietly shaking everyone’s hands, saying ‘Well played’, back to her normal self. Quite strange. She’s small, Robyn, but strong, nuggety, and beautifully balanced. She skims lightly across the ground, where the rest of us trudge across it like it’s made of mud.

  I should exempt Fi from that though, because she’s light and graceful too. Fi was always a bit of a hero to me, someone I looked up to as the perfect person. When she did something wrong I’d say, ‘Fi! Don’t do that! You’re my role model!’ I love her beautiful delicate skin. She has what my mother calls ‘fine features’. She looked like she’d never done any hard work in her life, never been in the sun, never got her hands dirty, and that was all true, because unlike us rurals she lived in town and spent more time playing piano than drenching sheep or marking lambs. Her parents are both solicitors.

  Kevin, now he was more your typical rural. He’s older than the rest of us but he was Corrie’s man, so he had to come or she would have lost interest straightaway.

  The first thing you noticed about Kevin was his wide wide mouth. The second thing you noticed was the size of his hands. They were enormous, like trowels. He was known for having a big ego and he liked to take the credit for everything; he annoyed me quite often for that, but I still thought he was the best thing that ever happened in Corrie’s life because before she started going round with him she was too quiet and unnoticed. They used to talk a lot at school, and then she’d tell me what a sensitive caring guy he was. Although I couldn’t always see that myself, I could see the way she started getting so much more confident from going with him, and I liked that.

  I always pictured Kevin in twenty years, when he’d be President of the Show Society and playing cricket for the club on Saturdays and talking about fat lamb prices and bringing up his three kids – with Corrie maybe. That was the kind of world we were used to. We never seriously thought it would change much.

  Lee lived in town, like Fi. ‘Lee and Fi, from Wirrawee,’ we used to sing. That was all they had in common though. Lee was as dark as Fi was fair. He had a black crewcut and deep brown intelligent eyes, and a nice soft voice which clips the ends off some of his words. His father’s Thai and his mother’s Vietnamese, and they had a restaurant which served Asian food. Pretty good restaurant too; we went there a lot Lee was good at Music and Art; in fact he was good at most things, but he could be very annoying when things went against him. He’d go into long sulks and not talk to anyone for days at a time.

  The last one
was Homer, who lived down the road from me. Homer was wild, outrageous. He didn’t care what he did or what anyone thought. I always remember going there for lunch, when we were little kids. Mrs Yannos tried to make Homer eat Brussels sprouts; they had a massive argument which ended with Homer chucking the sprouts at his mum. One of them hit her in the forehead, pretty hard too. I watched goggle-eyed. I’d never seen anything like it. If I’d tried that at home I’d have been chained to the tractor and used as a clodbuster. When we were in Year 8 Homer organised some of his madder mates into daily games of what he called Greek Roulette. In Greek Roulette you’d go every lunchtime to a room that was away from teachers’ eyes and then you’d take it in turns to walk up to a window and head-butt it. Each person kept doing it till the bell went for afternoon classes or the window broke, whichever came first. If it was your head that broke the window then you – or your parents – had to foot the bill for a new one. They broke a lot of windows playing Greek Roulette, before the school finally woke up to what was going on.

  Homer always seemed to be in trouble. Another of his favourite little amusements was to watch for workmen going on the roof at school to fix leaks or get balls or replace guttering. Homer would wait till they were safely up there, working away hard at whatever they had to do, then he’d strike. Half an hour later you’d hear yells and cries from the roof: ‘Help! Get us down from here! Some mongrel’s pinched our bloody ladder!’

  Homer had been quite short as a little kid but he’d filled out and grown a lot in the last few years, until he ended up one of the biggest guys in the school They were always at him to play footy, but he hated most sports and wouldn’t join a team for anything. He liked hunting and would often ring my parents to ask if he and his brother could come on to our place to wipe out a few more rabbits. And he liked swimming. And he liked music, some of it quite weird.

  Homer and I had spent all our free time together when we were little, and we were still close.

  So that was the Famous Five. I guess Corrie and I made it the Secret Seven. Hah! Those books don’t have a lot of bearing on what’s happened to us. I can’t think of any books I’ve read – or films I’ve seen – that relate much to us. We’ve all had to rewrite the scripts of our lives the last few weeks. We’ve learnt a lot and we’ve had to figure out what’s important, what matters – what really matters. It’s been quite a time.

  Chapter Two

  The plan was to leave at eight o’clock, nice and early. By about ten o’clock we were nearly ready. By 10.30 we were about four k’s from home, starting the ascent to Tailor’s Stitch. It’s a long slow grunt up a track that’s become a real mess over the years; holes so big that I thought we’d lose the Landrover in them, mud slides, creek crossings. I don’t know how many times we stopped for fallen trees. We’d brought the chain saw and after a while Homer suggested we keep it running and he’d nurse it as we drove along, to save having to start it when we came to another log. I don’t think he was serious. I hope he wasn’t serious. It had been a long time since anyone had been up there. We always know, because they have to come through our paddocks to get to the spur. If Dad had known how bad the track was he’d never have let us take the Landrover. He trusts my driving, but not that much. Still, we bounced along, me wrestling with the wheel, doing a steady five k’s, with occasional bursts up to ten. There was another unscheduled stop about half way when Fi decided she was going to be sick. I stopped fast, she exited through the rear door looking white as a corpse, and donated a sticky mess in the bushes for the benefit of any passing feral dogs or cats.

  It was not a pretty sight. Everything Fi did she did gracefully, but even Fi found it hard to be graceful while she was vomiting. After that she walked quite a while, but the rest of us continued to lurch on up the spur in the Landie. It was actually fun, in a strange sort of way. Like Lee said, it was better than the Cocktail Shaker ride at the Show, because it was longer – and it was free.

  We were actually missing the Show to come on this trip. We’d left the day before Commemoration Day, when the whole country stops, but in our district people don’t just stop. They stop and then they converge on Wirrawee, because Commemoration Day is traditionally the day of the Wirrawee Show. It’s quite an occasion. Still, we didn’t mind missing it. There’s a limit to the number of balls you can roll down the clown’s throat, and there’s a limit to the number of times you can get excited over your mother winning Best Decorated Cake. A year’s break from the Show wouldn’t do us any harm.

  That’s what we thought.

  It was about half past two when we got to the top. Fi had ridden the last couple of k’s, but we were all relieved to get out of the Landie and stretch our bones. We came out on the south side of a knoll near Mt Martin. That was the end of the vehicle track: from then on it was shanks’s pony. But for the time being we wandered around and admired the view. On one side you could see the ocean: beautiful Cobbler’s Bay, one of my favourite places, and according to Dad one of the world’s great natural harbours, used only by the occasional fishing boat or cruising yacht. It was too far from the city for anything else. We could see a couple of ships there this time though; one looked like a large trawler maybe. The water looked as blue as royal blood; deep and dark and still. In the opposite direction Tailor’s Stitch seamed its way to the summit of Mt Martin, a sharp straight ridge, bare black rocks forming a thin line as though a surgeon had made a giant incision centuries ago. Another view faced back down the way we’d come; the track invisible under its canopy of trees and creepers. Way in the distance you got glimpses of the rich farmland of the Wirrawee district, dotted with houses and clumps of trees, the lazy Wirrawee River curving slowly through it.

  And on the other side was Hell.

  ‘Wow,’ said Kevin, taking a long look into it. ‘We’re going to get into there?’

  ‘We’re going to try,’ I said, having doubts already but trying to sound strong and sure.

  ‘It’s impressive,’ said Lee. ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘I’ve got two questions,’ said Kevin, ‘but I’ll only ask one of them. How?’

  ‘What’s the other one?’

  ‘The other one is “Why?”. But I’m not going to ask that. Just tell me how and I’ll be satisfied. I’m easily satisfied.’

  ‘That’s not what Corrie says,’ said Homer, beating me to it.

  A few rocks were thrown; there was some wrestling; Homer nearly took the fast route into Hell. That’s two things guys are addicted to, throwing rocks and wrestling, but I’ve noticed these guys don’t seem to do either any more. I wonder why.

  ‘So how are we going to get in there?’ Kevin asked again, at last.

  I pointed to the right. ‘There it is. That’s our route.’

  ‘That? That collection of cliffs?’

  He was exaggerating a bit, but not much. Satan’s Steps are huge granite blocks that look like they were chucked there in random descending order by some drunken giant, back in the Stone Age. There’s no vegetation on them: they’re uncompromisingly bare. The more I looked at them the more unlikely it all seemed, but that didn’t stop me making my big motivational speech.

  ‘Guys, I don’t know if it’s possible or not, but there’s plenty of people round Wirrawee who say it is. If you believe the stories, there was an old ex-murderer lived in there for years – the Hermit from Hell. If some pensioner can do it, we sure can. I think we should give it our best shot. Let’s make like dressmakers and get the tuck in there.’

  ‘Gee Ellie,’ said Lee with respect, ‘now I understand why you’re captain of the netball team.’

  ‘How do you get to be an ex-murderer?’ Robyn asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, what’s the difference between an ex-murderer and a murderer?’

  Robyn always did go straight to the point.

  ‘I’ve got one more question,’ Kevin said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Do you actually know anyone who’s been down there?’
/>   ‘Um, let’s get the packs out of the Landie.’

  We did that, then sat against them, admiring the views and the old blue sky, and munching on chicken and salad. Fi’s pack was in direct line of vision from me, and the more I looked at it the more I began to realise how swollen it seemed.

  ‘Fi,’ I said at last, ‘just what have you got in that pack?’

  She sat up, looking startled. ‘What do you mean? Just clothes and stuff. Same as everyone else.’

  ‘What clothes exactly?’

  ‘What Corrie told me. Shirts. Jumpers. Gloves, socks, undies, towel.’

  ‘But what else? That can’t be all.’

  She started looking a bit embarrassed.

  ‘Pyjamas.’

  ‘Oh Fi.’

  ‘Dressing gown.’

  ‘Dressing gown? Fi!’

  ‘Well, you never know who you’ll meet.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘I’m not telling you any more. You’ll all laugh at me.’

  ‘Fi, we’ve still got to get the food into these packs. And then carry them God knows how far.’

  ‘Oh. Do you think I should take out the pillow then?’

  We formed a committee of six to reorganise Fi’s backpack for her. Fi was not a member of the committee. After that we distributed the food that Corrie and I had so carefully bought. There seemed to be a mountain of it, but there were seven of us and we planned to be away five days. But try as we might we couldn’t get it all in. Some of the bulky items were a big problem. We ended up having to make some tough decisions, between the Vita Brits and the marshmallows, the pita bread and the jam doughnuts, the muesli and the chips. I’m ashamed to say what won in each case, but we rationalised everything by saying, ‘Well, we mightn’t get far from the Landie anyway, so we can always come back for stuff’.