Darkness Be My Friend (9 page)

Then I went looking for Fi.

She was asleep so I crawled into the little tent, lay beside her and went to sleep myself.

It was lunchtime before I woke. I lay in the hot tent. The sun had moved, or the Earth had. I suppose they both had. Anyway, there was no shade over the tent any more. Homer and I frequently had long arguments over whether it was better to have your tent in the morning
sun or the afternoon sun. As usual we had directly opposite opinions. Homer liked the morning sun because he said it was nice to wake up to; I liked the afternoon because it meant your tent was still warm when you went to bed.

I lay there slowly baking. A couple of blowies had got in and were doing their aerial patrols at low revs above my head. Sometimes they went so slowly you thought they would stall. On the outside of the tent I could see the dark silhouettes of dozens more flies sitting patiently on the transparent green nylon. Flies on the fly. They irritated me terribly for some reason. I lost my temper with them and punched the roof of the tent fiercely; nearly putting a hole through the fabric.

"I think Ellie's awake," I heard Homer say, in his usual dry sarcastic way. "Doing your aerobics, Ellie?"

To my surprise Kevin suddenly appeared in the entrance to the tent and gave me a cup of Tang. It was an orange juice powder that he'd brought from New Zealand. Mixed with the water it gave a drink like orange cordial. It was silly really, considering our creek water was probably the freshest in the world, but he'd wanted it and he'd been willing to carry it in and we didn't have the restrictions on what we brought that the Kiwis did, so it was fair enough. And once he'd done all the hard work of carrying it in, we helped him drink it.

But it was nice of him to bring me breakfast in bed. It was his way of saying, "Whatever happened, we're still on your side." That was the kind of relationship we'd developed, the five of us, even if it did get a touch strained at times.

I knew eventually I'd have to face the music, tell
them what happened. They'd be bursting with curiosity, of course. I would have been, in their situation. So I thought grimly: "Better get it over with," and crawled out of the tent, carefully balancing my Tang. I went over to where they were sitting, in the shade down near Chris' grave.

I just told them straight out, no mucking around.

They were cool about it. I sort of knew they would be. They were about the only people in the world, along with my parents, who I could have trusted to react like that. What's the name of that song, "That's What Friends Are For"? I don't plan to get mushy in my old age, but we did have a friendship, the five of us. We could say that for certain.

The day kind of drifted after that. We were in a typical situation from this war, typical for us anyway, sitting around waiting, not having much to do, filling time in whatever boring mind-numbing ways we could. Fi and I cleaned up the campsite, then sat by the creek with our feet in the water, talking about nothing in particular.

We didn't say anything about the war. After last night I felt too guilty to want to discuss the war.

Plus sometimes it was just all too scary. There was so much to be afraid of that I didn't know where to start. Our main fear revolved around our families. When we'd been caught and taken to Stratton Prison, did the soldiers make a connection between us and our families, prisoners still at Wirrawee Showgrounds? Or were they too busy, too disorganised, too distracted by the bombing? Kevin was the only one who could give a false name. Major Harvey knew the rest of us, so we couldn't fool him. Kevin he didn't know, and Kevin had taken
full advantage of the fact and said he was Chris. Harvey had known we had an extra group member, back in Hell, and Chris' parents were in Belgium, so it was a smart move by Kevin. If only we could have had the luxury of doing the same.

So Fi and I talked of shallow silly things, like clothes and boys and friends from school. It was about one per cent successful in helping me forget what had happened in Wirrawee, but it was better than sitting around brooding. Fi did my hair as we talked. To my surprise she admitted she liked one of the soldiers, a big black-haired guy named Mike who I think was Maori or Samoan. I mean, she really liked him. She didn't just think he was cute: she wanted a relationship. I'd been thinking of us as kids and them as full-on adults, which they were, of course, but Fi made me realise they weren't much older than us. Knowing Fi I didn't think she'd do much about Mike, but I started wondering if there were any who I could see myself liking in that way. A couple of them were pretty cute. Then I thought, "I'm sure they'd be interested in you, Ellie, after the way you acted last night."

So I killed that one off successfully.

We agreed that when it was dark we'd go up on to Wombegonoo. From its eastern side there was a spot where you could see Wirrawee. During the early stages of the invasion there was nothing to see at night, but now that they were using so many lights it would be different.

I was scared of what we might see but I was still anxious to go. What we were hoping for was a ginormous fireworks show. With the new airfield sitting there
waiting to be blown to dust, and with the Kiwis so competent, I felt optimistic about the result. Nervous, sure, but optimistic. What I didn't want to see was a whole lot of gunfire, or planes taking off and bombing stuff, or any evidence that the enemy was fighting back. Because, of course, if that happened I was going to blame myself; I was going to think that my loss of control had caused a disaster.

So at dusk we hiked up out of Hell and took the twisting narrow track, as thin as a shoelace, to the summit. It was surprisingly cold up there, after a series of hot nights. We huddled together in a clump of bodies, just four of us now. I wondered what was happening to Lee, if he was safe, whether he was alone, what he'd be thinking. I felt even more desperately ashamed of the way I'd broken down, more ashamed about it than at any other time, even when it was happening. There was nothing I could do about it now, nothing practical I mean, and I didn't say anything to the others, but I promised myself that I would make it up to everyone somehow.

Dad told me once how he'd taken the ute into Burchett's when the windscreen was shattered by a roo that he'd hit, and he asked Bill Burchett to fix it for him.

"I can't fix it," Bill answered, "but I'll put a new one in for you."

Well, that was the position I was in. I couldn't fix what I'd done, I could only try to do something new that would be useful. I wouldn't scream the next time.

Assuming I got another chance.

So, anyway, we sat there. The bush was busy, like always. An owl landed in a tree just off to my right, then suddenly took off again with a great fluster of wings. A rattle of pebbles clown the hill had us all peering nervously through the dark. It was the kind of noise that before the invasion we would hardly have noticed, but now it was enough to have us reaching for the tranquillisers. A possum screeched at another possum and leaves shook as one of them ran up a tree trunk to safety.

It's a strange time, night-time. Things that would be beautiful or cute in daytime are disturbing at night. You're never sure about anything. Your thoughts are different.

I had plenty of time to think about stuff like that because absolutely nothing happened in Wirrawee, as far as we could see. We sat there getting cold and stiff until 5.30 a.m. Of course, we did a bit of sleeping from time to time, but there was always someone awake. And nothing happened.

It wasn't too big a deal. Iain had warned us it might be like this. We knew from our own experience how many things could go wrong. Iain and Ursula had explained the contingency plans to us. If they failed on the first night they would try again the next. And again the next. After three failures they would either come back to Hell or get a message to us. If we hadn't heard from them after four nights we could assume something had gone wrong. We were to use the spare radio to make contact with Colonel Finley and arrange a pickup.

That was a situation we preferred not to think about.
Because these guys were so competent, because they smelt of success the way my mother smelt of Chanel No. 5 when she and Dad were having a big night out, we hadn't spent much time thinking about that option.

But perhaps we thought about it a little more after the second night. Because again nothing happened. Owls came and went, wild dogs howled, we saw a snake on a bare rock at around midnight, which is a rare sight even on a warm night like we had, but nothing happened in the direction of Wirrawee.

At 5.30 we trudged down into Hell again, starting to feel a little nervous, a little sick.

I felt quite a lot sick. I just couldn't stop wondering if something had gone wrong because of my screaming at the soldier. It didn't take too much imagination to think of some terrifying possibilities. In my mind I saw the Kiwis dragging the man's body away and being surprised by a passing patrol, then bodies falling as gunfire ripped the night away.

It was no good saying anything to the others, because with the best will in the world they wouldn't be able to do anything, except mumble, "Oh no, you're just imagining it, Ellie," or "Don't worry, they'll be fine."

So I lounged around all day feeling desperate.

The third night I thought I would scream again, this time with the tension and boredom of it all. I kept staring at Wirrawee wishing for an explosion, willing it to happen, certain that if I only longed for it passionately enough there would be a sudden eruption of flame and the hills would echo with the rumbles of a gigantic blast. Then wouldn't we dance! Wouldn't we just get up and hug each other and do a war dance and rush
down into Hell to prepare a celebration feast for the warriors returning home.

But there was nothing.

Now we knew there was a problem.

No one said anything on our trip back into Hell. We went off to the tents and crawled into our bags and tried to catch up on lost sleep. I don't know about the others but I didn't do much sleeping. And Fi's breathing was different to the sounds she normally makes when she's asleep.

I lay there sweating for a couple of hours, then gave up. I slithered out of the tent and immediately saw Homer, who was sitting at the cold fireplace with a stick, going through the ashes over and over again in a kind of desperate, pointless way.

I went and sat next to him but neither of us said anything for at least half an hour.

When Homer did speak I got a shock. The silence had been so long I'd almost forgotten he was there.

"We'll have to go and look for them," he said.

"I know."

I'd been thinking the same thing but had been too scared to say it. It was frightening and at the same time a relief when he came right out and said it like that.

"I agree," Kevin said from his tent.

"And me," came Fi's little quiet voice.

I almost laughed; it seemed so funny to hear them join in when we hadn't even known they were listening.

"Can't a bloke have a private conversation around here any more?" Homer complained.

"Give them one more night to get back," Kevin said, ignoring Homer's comment.

"Yeah, they'll turn up tonight," I said.

"What are we going to tell Colonel Finley if they don't?" Fi asked, from our tent.

"Worry about that when it happens," Homer said.

"He'll want us to come back," Kevin said.

In my heart I knew Kevin would be secretly wishing he could go back, and that's why he'd said it, but so what? There was a time when I'd thought Kevin was a bit weak, but now I'd shown everybody my own weakness, so I couldn't criticise him. Anyway, surely the bigger the fear the greater the courage? What I mean is, if you're never scared, doing brave things isn't that impressive, but Kevin was scared a lot of the time and still did brave things, so doesn't that make him an even bigger hero?

"He's got Buckley's," Homer said.

No one had anything to say to that.

I was frustrated at sitting around doing nothing so I took a walk up the creek to the rums of the Hermit's hut. Even a four-wheel drive couldn't have got up there and all I had was ten-toe drive, but I slogged my way through the water, my head down to keep under the trees and creepers. The hut hadn't changed, of course. Dark and cool and empty; the damp wood slowly decaying, slaters and millipedes and earwigs hiding in the moist rotting fragments. I pulled out the metal box, the box that Lee and I had found so many months ago, and slowly read through its contents again. What a strange world these people lived in! Such strict rules, such formal customs. It reminded me of books like
Emma
and
Persuasion,
even though that world of ballgowns and courting and marrying for money and position was a
long way from the Hermit's world of clearing bush and battling fires and snakes and drought.

It was a long way from our world too, where the biggest question for couples was whether to put your tongue in on the first date.

Back in those days a lot of marriages were arranged by parents. The kids didn't get any choice. It made me wonder: if my mum and dad had arranged a marriage for me, who would they pick? I guessed Homer, but only because they knew him better than any other boys. And it would be a good business deal to bring our two properties together. It'd make a nice bit of real estate—and put us in a position to take on the big companies who were gradually buying up the choice properties in the Wirrawee district.'

"There I was doing it again," I thought angrily. Forgetting that all those things were over now, that this country was no longer ours, that a different group of people were occupying the land. I chewed the knuckle on my index finger angrily. How had we let this happen? Where had we gone wrong? What should we have done differently?

Well, maybe we'd been a bit lazy. Not lazy in the way of lying in bed all day. We worked pretty damn hard on our place, I knew that, and just about everyone I knew worked their butts off. It's a wonder there weren't a lot of bumless people walking around the district. No, where we'd been lazy was with our minds. We didn't put our brains to work the way we put our bodies to work. When it came time to think about tough issues we headed outside to check the water levels in the tanks or put more air in the pressure pump or service the Ag.
bike. Given a choice between reading
New Weekly
and an article on politics or economics, there are no prizes for guessing what we chose. We watched cartoons instead of the "ABC News." And now we were paying the price. Somehow physical work never seemed as hard as mental work. Maybe because with physical work there was usually a limit to it. You knew the size of the hole you had to dig, or the number of sheep you had to drench, or the number of fence posts you had to cut. With mental work there was no limit. Once you started you were straight into infinite figures, and infinite figures are very big numbers.