Billy Mack's War (4 page)

‘No, I guess not.'

‘Not now, not any more. But we'll get to that.'

Thankfully the coffee shop was only a couple of streets away. They pulled up in front of the little collection of shops and Mr McAuliffe turned to Danny.

‘Are you certain you want to do this?'

‘Yes, I'm sure,' Danny said. He wasn't entirely lying either. He'd realised that the worst was probably over. Mr McAuliffe was being quite nice and not at all the grump he'd seemed before.

‘All right, then we should go in.'

They found a table in the front window, just inside the door. The waitress came over straightaway and handed them each a laminated menu. ‘The soup of the day is pea and ham,' she said.

‘Thank you,' Mr McAuliffe said, barely acknowledging her. Danny smiled quickly at her so she wouldn't feel too bad about being pretty much ignored. Then he put his menu on the table and sat hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. Mr McAuliffe read his menu carefully on both sides. ‘Are you hungry?' he asked.

Danny shook his head. He couldn't have eaten anything with his stomach still unknotting itself from a day of anxiety.

‘A milkshake, then?'

‘Yes, please. Chocolate, please.'

‘Very good.' He called to the waitress, who came straight over. ‘A pot of Darjeeling and a chocolate milkshake, please. And a couple of those Anzac biscuits in the jar up there.'

‘Darjeeling, chocky shake and a couple of Anzacs. Got it,' said the waitress, taking their menus. ‘Won't be long.'

So once again they were alone with their uncomfortable silence. Danny watched the traffic go by. Out on the footpath a woman was wrestling with her toddler as she tried to get him out of his car seat. A young man in a muscle shirt and tiny shorts jogged by with a huge dog on a lead. An old lady was looking in the front window of the chemist. A man came out of the newsagent's with a paper and climbed into his car. A plumber got out of his van to go to the ATM, while his apprentice sat in the front seat looking bored.

‘It's a busy place,' Mr McAuliffe said.

‘Yeah,' Danny agreed.

‘Aren't you going to ask me about Dad?'

Danny looked at him. Was he serious? After what he said the last time he asked that question? ‘No. You told me not to.'

Mr McAuliffe scratched his cheek. Then he looked out the window and smiled. ‘I did, didn't I? I'm awfully sorry about that.'

‘It's okay.'

‘No, it's not okay, and I'll tell you why.' He lowered his eyes. ‘This isn't at all easy, Daniel. You see, my father passed away late last week.'

Danny frowned. This didn't seem real. This seemed … what was that word Mrs Meaghan had used in art? Surreal. ‘He died?'

‘Yes. He was very old, Daniel. But you knew that. You knew a great deal about my father. In fact, I started to wonder if you knew more about him than I did.'

‘How did he die?' Danny asked.

‘He was very old, nothing more than that. He fell asleep one night, and he didn't wake up the following morning. If only it was that painless for everyone.' He gave a quick smile that was gone almost immediately.

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

Mr McAuliffe blinked. ‘I'm telling you now, Daniel.'

‘So you picked me up from school and brought me here to tell me that? You could have just said it in that letter you sent, or on the phone.'

Mr McAuliffe shook his head. ‘No, that wouldn't have been right. I wanted to tell you face-to-face. You deserve that, Daniel. Look, it's all right,' he added as tears began to well up in Danny's eyes. ‘Here.' He tugged a couple of serviettes from their silver holder and passed them across the table.

That word
surreal
was still bouncing around Danny's head. ‘I can't believe he's … he's not alive any more,' he said.

‘I know, but people die, Daniel. It's a fact of life. Everyone dies eventually. You will, I will, everyone will. It's not a happy thought, but it's true.'

The waitress was back with the coffee and milkshake. She glanced at Danny, who had taken his glasses off and was wiping his eyes. ‘I'll just get your bikkies,' she said as she put the drinks on the table. Mr McAuliffe looked up at her and smiled, quickly, as if to tell her that everything was all right, and she turned away with a slight rise of the eyebrows.

Mr McAuliffe leaned forward. ‘I'd like you to come to the funeral, Daniel. It's on Thursday. Will you come? Dad would have wanted you there, you know.'

Danny shrugged and wiped his eyes some more. ‘Okay, I suppose I can come. I'll just have to check with my dad.'

‘To be honest, Daniel,
I'd
like you there as well.'

‘Really? Why?'

Mr McAuliffe smiled. ‘What you did for Dad — the running away thing —'

‘The escape,' Danny interrupted.

‘Yes, very well, the escape. Well, that caused me to think about a great many things.'

‘Like what?'

‘Like what he went through.'

‘In the prisoner-of-war camp?'

‘Yes, that too, but when he returned home as well. The battles he had to keep fighting.'

‘Do you remember him coming back from the war?'

‘Oh yes, very clearly, like it was last week. I was twelve in '45, and we were still living in Tasmania. So Dad was … let me think … thirty-one when he came back from the war. Yes, that sounds right, although my recollection is of him being a lot older than that. I've got photos of him when he was forty, after we moved to Sydney, and he looked like an old man then. It wasn't much different when he first got back.'

‘Did he talk about what he'd seen?'

Mr McAuliffe shook his head. ‘No, not very much — not at that stage. Later on he did, once his mind started to go and he began to let some details slip, but by then he couldn't really explain it all. No, he was very careful about how much he'd say. Especially to me.'

‘Was he a hero?'

Mr McAuliffe smiled. ‘I thought he was.'

‘How about everyone else?'

His smile was dissolving fast. ‘The Japs caught him, didn't they? And heroes didn't get caught. That was how many folks saw it, anyway.'

‘But that's awful!' Danny protested.

‘Oh yes, dreadful! But unfortunately that's how it was a lot of the time. I was there, Daniel, I saw it all. I might have been only a child, but I saw everything.'

‘Can you tell me what happened?'

‘You want to hear? Why?'

‘Because … because he was my friend, that's all.'

‘Very well.' Mr McAuliffe shifted in his seat, as if he was getting settled in for a long time. ‘I'm sure Dad wouldn't mind if I told you.'

Chapter 5 Billy

It had been raining hard the day before the Suffolk brothers came home, and the strips of clay beside the main road into Evansbridge had become strips of mud. Bobby and James Suffolk had both been in New Guinea, and had walked the Kokoda Track with the fuzzy-wuzzy angels. My friend Doug knew that his brothers were coming back, and I guess he was probably a bit worried about making me feel too bad, especially since we hadn't had any news about Dad yet. Still, it didn't stop him being pretty excited, and he didn't hide it very well, especially when I overheard him telling Pete Hayward that Saturday was the big homecoming. There was one other man coming back as well, a sailor, Ken someone from a farm a little way out of town. I don't really remember much else about him.

Ma went along. She did everything expected of her. For the homecoming shindig she baked a batch of scones and took out one of the jars of apple and blackberry jam she'd been saving. It was Dad's favourite, so I didn't see it as an especially good sign when she tools it out of the pantry and slipped it into the basket beside the scones, which were still warm from the oven. ‘All right, Billy, round up Hattie and Meg,' she said, glancing up at the mantel clock. ‘The parade starts in less than an hour, and you'll want to find a good spot.'

‘Don't you want a good spot too, Ma?'

‘Of course I do,' she replied. ‘Really, Billy!'

I found the twins playing in the back garden. They had mud all over their best dresses. I knew there'd be an explosion if Ma saw them in that state, so I grabbed a rag from the laundry and started trying to scrub the mud off. Of course that didn't work, and the twins just giggled at me as I got more and more worked up about the smear of mud I was rubbing deeper into the fabric of their pinafores.

Ma came through the back door shouting, ‘Billy! Where are you? I told you to get the twins …' Her voice trailed off as she saw me bent down, scrubbing away at Hattie's dress, mud all over the place. ‘Billy! What do you think you're doing?'

‘They got all muddy, Ma,' I explained. ‘It wasn't my fault, honest.'

‘Stop. You're just making it worse,' she said, slapping my hands away. ‘Oh Lord, why today, girls? Why today of
all
days? I'll have to put them into something different now. Billy, you go on ahead.'

I explained that I was happy to stay and help her with the girls, but she shook her head. ‘Go on, Billy, or you'll miss the parade.'

‘So will you,' I said.

‘Well, there's nothing we can do about
that,
is there?' she said. ‘Go on now.'

I got to the front of the Evansbridge town hall just in time to hear the sound of the school band tuning up behind St Michael's Church, half a dozen bugles, a euphonium and a drum sorting themselves out into some kind of logical order. The crowd was standing three or four deep along the main street by then. It seemed that the families from all the farms in the district had driven into town to see the Suffolk boys come home. It was very exciting, everyone wearing red, white and blue, flags flying, bunting and streamers hanging from every street-sign, lamp-post and window-sill. Some of the women had made a huge V for victory out of white flowers and hung it from the clock tower on the town hall.

I looked for Doug Suffolk in the crowd, which was budding up to a couple of hundred at least. Then I remembered that he and his parents had a special place reserved up on the main dais with the mayor. I was glad, I suppose. It meant that I wouldn't have to see him leaping up and down when his brothers were driven slowly by. I bet that if he thought about it he'd have been glad as well. I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted to see my face, knowing that my father was still missing. I planned to be brave and happy for him.

We hadn't heard any news of Dad since 1942. A year before that he'd gone back to Scotland to join up with one of the Scots regiments, the Seaforth Highlanders. I was too young to remember him going, except for one brief, shadowy memory of him lifting me up to sit on his suitcase while he clipped it shut. He sent several letters during basic, then one saying that he and the boys were shipping out to Burma. We got one more letter once he got there, and I remember that he complained about the heat and the humidity — and that was the last news we heard. After that, no thing. Not a word.

Ma had tried to get some news, good or bad, but no one could tell her anything. That was because they didn't know anything. Ma blamed the army, but I'm not sure if they had any more information than they were giving us, which was practically none. Nothing except that he'd been listed MIA — Missing in Action.

It was real hard for Ma. She cried a lot, and I sometimes overheard her talking to Nan or Aunty Margaret, late at night, when I was supposed to be asleep. I'd sneak out from my room, ever so quiet, and stand just around the corner from the kitchen door. I could hear Ma crying, but always very quietly, and whoever was with her would say soft, soothing things I couldn't really make out. I don't know how much good soothing words do — Ma still cried a lot.

Aunty Margaret was lucky. Uncle George had died a few years before, when an old dead tree fell on his truck. I say she was lucky because she knew how he died. She knew that he
had
die d. Ma didn't know if Dad was dead or alive, sick or well, and I reckon it must be hard to think of soothing words to say to someone when you don't know whether you're supposed to be saying I'm sorry he's gone' or I'm sure he'll be fine'. I think Nan and Aunty Margaret managed to say a combination of the two.

The band had gone quiet, and everyone was looking around expectantly. right, ‘All what's the story?' someone called out.

‘The Japs have changed their mind,' another bloke shouted. ‘We're goin' back in!' The crowd laughed, and that was what
I
found funny: a few weeks before, no one would have laughed at that joke.

Right on cue, the school band started up, for real this time. It was very stirring as they marched out from Mathers Street beyond the Criterion Hotel. They were wearing their school uniforms, of course, but their boater hats had red, white and blue ribbons around them. They looked so proud as they marched towards us, and for a while you couldn't hear them at all, the crowd was cheering so loud. Mr Fraser, the band-leader, was marching out in front. He didn't usually smile a lot, but that day it looked like he was struggling to hold back the broadest grin you've ever seen.

It wasn't a big parade, as parades go. Right behind the band came a group of women in uniform, the volunteer women from the district. They weren't really marching — it was more like a quick happy walk, and they waved excitedly at the people lining both sides of the street. They got a big cheer, those ladies.

It wasn't anything compared with what was coming, though, because next came about a dozen men in soldier's uniforms. Most were marching (a couple of them with a limp), and there were three in wheelchairs, being pushed along by their mates. These were the men from the district who had come home injured earlier in the war. They bore medals on their chests, hanging heavy from their jackets. Gosh, those blokes were proud!

I swallowed hard and found myself blinking a lot when I saw those men. I don't think I was the only one, either. About thirty men had left the district to fight, and this little group was all that had returned. And to make it worse, my dad was the only one we still didn't know anything about.

Then came the moment the crowd had really been waiting for. From around the end of the pub came a tractor, driven by a beaming Lionel Addison. Standing on the trailer behind, tall and proud, were the Suffolk boys and Ken the sailor. The crowd surged forward, and for a moment I couldn't see anything for the arms, flags and streamers in the air. And the noise! I've never heard anything like it! The band was suddenly drowned out completely by the shouting and cheering.

I craned my neck to see Doug Suffolk. He was up on the dais with his parents and the mayor, but it was hard to get a really good look at him through the sea ofarms and faces. I'll bet he was proud, though. I was happy for him, really I was. His brothers had come home. I didn't have any brothers, but I know Doug would have missed him real bad while they were away.

After the parade had gone by, which didn't take very long, the mayor made a speech. It was interrupted every few seconds by cheers whenever he said anything patriotic about victory over the forces of evil, or mentioned the bravery of our gallant young men. Then all the returned boys came up on the stage one by one to receive the ceremonial keys to the town. I did wonder for a minute or two whether the keys in those little wooden presentation boxes would unlock any door in Evansbridge. My very next thought was how much fun it would be to sneak into the police station at night and borrow the rifle. Ernie Stoppard was always bragging about his dad's rifle, like he owned it himself, and like it was the only firearm in town. And it wouldn't be breaking and entering either, since I'd have a key.

I saw Doug Suffolk about half an hour later. He was with his eldest brother Bobby outside the town hall. They were surrounded by a small crowd of people shaking Bobby's hand, slapping his back, hugging him. I wasn't sure what I should say to Doug, but I didn't think it was right to avoid him, so I went over. ‘Hi, Doug,' I said simply.

‘Hi, Billy,' he replied. I think he tried not to look so happy, for my sake, but he didn't do a very good job. ‘Great parade, huh?'

‘Yeah, real good,' I agreed. ‘Exciting.'

‘This is Bobby,' Doug said, and he tapped his brother's arm. Bobby excused himself from the woman he was talking to, and turned to face us.

‘What's that?' he asked.

‘Bobby, this is my mate Billy,' Doug said, and Bobby stuck out his hand. It was huge and strong and tanned.

‘Gidday there, Billy,' he said. His voice was deep, and he was so tall. Standing this close to a real soldier, with his pressed uniform, the belt around his waist, the boots, the rifle over his shoulder, it was difficult to know what to say.

‘Hi,' I said. ‘Must be nice to be back.'

‘Yeah, great,' he said. ‘Real good.'

‘Billy's dad went as well,' Doug said, and Bobby nodded.

‘Fair go? Where?'

‘Burma,' I replied, and Bobby's face changed in that instant.

‘Right. Burma. Uh … and did he …

‘We don't know, — I said. ‘We haven't heard anything.'

‘At all?'

I shook my head.

‘Crikey,' Bobby said, making a sympathetic face.

‘That's rough, sport. Well, best of luck with your old man, eh?'

‘Thanks,' I said, but I don't think he heard me. He'd already turned away to shake someone else's hand.

I don't know how many people the Evansbridge town hall was designed to hold, but I'm sure we squeezed in a lot more that day. The ceiling was covered with streamers and balloons, the stage was all prettied up ready for the dance band, and above it was a huge banner saying WELL DONE AND WELCOME HOME BOYS. Lining the walls were tables stacked with all sorts of food, the likes of which we hadn't seen for years. The food rationing didn't seem to stop the local people putting on a pretty impressive spread. I think there were a few nervous lambs and cows in the lead-up to the Victory bash!

‘Hello, Billy,' said Mrs Grayson, who'd turned up beside me.

‘Oh, hi,' I said, suddenly feeling a bit weird in the guts. Mrs Grayson was my teacher, but in my opinion she was far too young to be a Mrs. She was so pretty, and I found it hard to answer her questions in class, just because she had a way of smiling that made tiny dimples appear in the creases at the corner of her mouth. That and her skin, which was like milk, perfect creamy milk. Mrs Grayson's husband Peter was a stock agent in town, and he was always grinning. It annoyed me low he always looked so happy. Even when there was nothing happening that should cause someone to smile, he was smiling. He was a very successful stock agent too, like his father, who was also Mr Grayson, and who also grinned constantly. It was the fact that the older of the two Mr Graysons also smiled too much that convinced me that it wasn't being married to Mrs Grayson that made the younger one so happy. Still, I'd decided at a young age that being married to Mrs Grayson
would
certainly make someone smile. Just not that much.

‘Did you see the parade?' Mrs Grayson asked me.

‘Yes, ma'am,' I said. ‘I thought it was real good.'

‘Yes, me too. It's hard when you're wishing someone else was in it though, don't you think?'

‘Yes, ma'am,' I agreed.

‘Did your mum come into town?'

‘Yes, she was coming a bit later. My sisters messed up their clothes.'

‘I see.' Mrs Grayson squeezed my shoulder gently and leaned a little closer to my ear. I could feel her warm breath tickling the hairs on my neck. ‘Tell your mum I said hello, won't you, Billy? And that I was sorry to miss her.'

‘Sure,' I said.

‘Make sure you do now.'

‘Yes, ma'am.

‘Thank you, Billy.'

About a quarter of an hour later I saw Ma come in with her scones and jam. I watched her as she put the plate down on the table, way over on the far side of the ball. One of the other ladies said something to her, and she smiled, very quickly. I don't think she was trying to be miserable; in fact, I know she wasn't. It wasn't ever like my mother to
try
to be unhappy. It was just a hard time for her, and I think everyone probably understood that.

I went over to her, shouldering my way though. the crowd. ‘Hi, Ma. Where are the twins?'

‘Mrs French tools them for me,' she said, as she rearranged a few of the platters and bowls. ‘It would be good if you could go and find them, though. I don't want her to have to look after them all afternoon.'