Debbie was always glad when Uncle Max took his cap and jacket off the back of the door and the two men sallied forth to the nearest pub, because it meant that she and her mother might have a quiet evening. They would sit in the kitchen, knitting away, with the wireless playing softly in the background. Often, they would go to bed before Max returned, though they invariably heard him arrive home since it seemed he could not so much as move across a room quietly, let alone close a door without slamming it.
What did please Debbie was the fact that Max never came into her room any more. A few days after her picnic on the Wirral, Jess had asked her curiously what she had done to the chair in her bedroom. ‘There are some odd scratches on the back,’ she had said. ‘And I remember someone once saying that you could wedge a door shut if you jammed the back of a chair under the handle.’
She had been eyeing Debbie steadily as she spoke and Debbie felt she simply had to come clean. ‘I wedged it,’ she had admitted. ‘I didn’t like to say anything, Mam, because it were too like tale-clatting, but Uncle Max don’t knock before he barges into my room to say goodnight and – and I’m not a child, Mam. I was going to buy a bolt but I didn’t want to keep you out . . .’
For a moment, Debbie had seen that her mother’s face had grown stern and cold. Now I’m for it, she thought apprehensively. Jess, she knew, would never believe ill of her beloved cousin Max. But instead of berating her, Jess put an arm round her and gave a quick squeeze. ‘I’ll have a word,’ she had said softly. ‘He don’t mean any harm. I guess he thinks of you as a little girl, but it won’t do. Leave it wi’ me, queen.’
And never, since that day, had Uncle Max entered her room, though he was still apt to give her a cuddle if he caught her alone.
Chapter Seven
August 1940
Nancy was making bread in the kitchen when she heard Bullwhip arrive, or rather she heard the thunder of his horses’ hooves and the jingle of their harness as they clattered across the iron-hard earth, for there had been no rain for weeks. She glanced at the oven, but the loaves needed another twenty minutes, so she left them where they were and hurried through the doorway of the kitchen just as Bullwhip shouted ‘G’day’ as he caught sight of her. ‘Eight letters for you, missus – well, for you and Andy – and a couple of parcels for young Jacko.’
‘Yes, Jack is fifteen in a couple of days so I expect one of the parcels is from Pete and the other from Jamie. And I hope there are letters from them as well.’
‘Aye, there’s a letter here from Pete; I reckernise the writing,’ Bullwhip said, handing over the missive. ‘It’s a thick one; plenty of news in there, I guess. Where is he now, anyway? I know he’s in the Royal Air Force, and I know he’s abroad, but that’s about all I do know.’
‘He was in South Africa being trained to fly bombers,’ Nancy told him, ripping open the letter from her eldest son. She scanned it briefly. ‘He’s eager to start active service and he doesn’t think it will be long before he and his mates set out for England. But come along in and I’ll make you a cup of tea and a bite to eat.’
Nancy went back to the kitchen and pulled a kettle over the heat, whilst Bullwhip made his way to the veranda, and presently she carried a big pot of tea over to the waiting man and set it down on a small table. Then she went and fetched the jug of milk, which was never brought into the kitchen where it would speedily have turned sour in the heat but was kept in the coolest place they could find, a man-made lagoon close to the nearby river, where it stayed good for the best part of a day. Returning, she smiled at the picture Bullwhip made, sprawled at his ease on a long cane chair, his dust-caked boots resting on a small table, weary eyelids drooping over his bright eyes. She mounted the steps, poured milk and tea into the two mugs which stood ready, then added two heaped spoonfuls of sugar to Bullwhip’s mug. She handed him his drink and raised her brows. ‘Bacon and eggs, Bullwhip? I just baked, so the bread’s really fresh, but if you’d rather have something cold . . .’ Bullwhip looked quite shocked; no working man ever refused a hot meal in favour of a cold one, Nancy thought, amused, but she said enticingly: ‘How about a helping of trifle? Or some junket? It ’ud cool you down.’
‘Reckon I’ll stick to bacon and eggs, missus, with a good thick slice of your homemade bread,’ Bullwhip said gruffly. ‘I reckon hot food gives you a nice sweat and a nice sweat cools a feller down.’
Nancy sipped her own tea and felt perspiration pop out on her forehead as the hot liquid slid down her throat. ‘Okay, Bullwhip; bacon and eggs coming up,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘You staying over?’
Bullwhip stretched and yawned hugely before replying. ‘Guess I’d better do one more call,’ he said regretfully. ‘I’ve a fair amount of post for the McGuires; when that’s delivered I can start my return trip.’
‘Right you are,’ Nancy said equably. She was longing to read her letters but etiquette demanded that she should feed Bullwhip first. However, jiggling the big black frying pan, crowded with thick slices of home-cured bacon and four hissing, spitting eggs, she spread out the pages of the letter from Pete which she had already opened, and read as she cooked. Pete was exultant. His course was finished; he and the rest of the lads had passed all tests with flying colours, and expected to be off to England any day. He was full of news, mainly about the kindness of their South African hosts, whose lives seemed to consist of receptions, parties and balls, to which the young air force personnel were always invited. Pete was a good boy, Nancy reflected, for he had not forgotten her asking him – how long ago it seemed! – to visit her old friend Jess when he reached England.
Of course I’ve no idea whereabouts in England I shall be posted, he wrote, but I guess wherever I am I can’t be too far away from Liverpool. It’s a small island, after all, and though I may not get leave for some weeks, I’m bound to get some eventually. I guess public transport will be better out there than at home since you can’t forbid people to drive their cars and ration petrol so severely without providing an alternative. The only thing is, Ma, you’ll have to write to me again giving me Aunt Jessie’s surname and address, since I seem to have lost the bit of paper I’d written it down on. No use writing to me here, by the way, because by the time you get this letter I may have moved on, but I’ll write again just as soon as I’m settled. I had a letter from Jamie a couple of days ago; he thinks Sydney is wonderful and college first rate. He always was clever but he says that as soon as he is old enough he’ll put his degree on hold and join up. Got to go now – we’re off to a beach barbecue; lots of red snapper, lobsters and crabs, to say nothing of champagne. It’s made in South Africa, not France, but it’s still pretty damn good!
Your loving son,
Pete
Nancy scooped the pages up and shoved them into the pocket of her calico apron, then she dished up the eggs and bacon and cut, with some difficulty, a thick slice off the loaf she had taken from the oven. Then she cut another slice which she fried crisp in the remaining fat before carrying the laden plate back to the veranda. Bullwhip was actually asleep, she could tell by the angle of his lolling head, but he awoke as she stood the plate down on the table and reached for it, grinning his appreciation. ‘That sure looks bonza, missus,’ he said gleefully. ‘All it needs to make it just perfect is . . .’
‘. . . tomato ketchup,’ Nancy finished for him. ‘I know how fond you fellows are of my tomato ketchup so I made a barrel of the stuff. I’ll fetch some out . . . want some mustard as well?’
‘That ’ud be beaut,’ Bullwhip conceded, and when she returned to the veranda he splashed both condiments liberally over the food. He took a big mouthful, chewed, swallowed, then grinned across at her. ‘You can leave me now, missus, and go off somewhere to read your mail,’ he suggested. He gestured to the plate with his fork. ‘This’ll keep me busy for a while yet.’
Nancy smiled but shook her head and reached for the pile of letters, slitting open the one from her second son. ‘It’s all right, Bullwhip, I can read them out here,’ she said. ‘To tell you the truth, it’s too bloody hot indoors for comfort.’
Jamie was well and enthusiastic about Sydney. It was a light-hearted letter but, like his brother, Jamie was longing to be a part of the action. Nancy laid down his letter and picked up the one in Jess’s familiar handwriting. Dear Jess! Her facility with a pen had increased over the years and now her letters were always interesting to read and full of little anecdotes about the war and her life. This one had been written back in June, after the evacuation of the BEF from Dunkirk. Naturally, Jess had been delighted when Churchill had formed a coalition government and she had carefully written down his inaugural speech, which was included in the letter. As if I’d not heard it on the wireless myself, Nancy thought, amused. But of course, the Walleroo was a world away from Wykeham Street, and it might not have occurred to Jess that they had anything so civilised as a wireless set, though Nancy always tried to draw a pleasant picture of her home. Indeed, she thought now, looking around her, it was scarcely recognisable as the corrugated iron shack to which she had come as a bride. Now, the walls were timber and there were screen doors and windows too, to keep out mosquitoes and other flying insects. The windows were curtained, the mud floors were covered with bright linoleum and the kitchen contained a good many labour-saving appliances which had been unknown to homesteaders twenty years ago. Outside, there was a flower garden near the house, an orchard on the river bank, and an enormous kitchen garden.
At first, Nancy had despaired of ever teaching the Aborigines to plant, tend and harvest the huge quantity of vegetables and fruit the homestead needed, because it was foreign to their nature. Left to their own devices they would hunt, fish and forage but they had no conception of agriculture. It had been the women who had begun to help in the garden first and they had teased and cajoled the men into doing some of the harder work such as digging and carting water. Now, many of the women had begun to cultivate small gardens of their own outside their humpies, for though they still had all their meals provided it was nice for the children to be able to have fresh fruit and vegetables on tap, so to speak. Furthermore, Nancy was aware that it stopped them from taking such things from the homestead garden.
‘Everything all right?’ Bullwhip said, through a mouthful of bread and egg. ‘Kids are always a worry and sometimes a nuisance, but when they’re away . . . well, I reckon it’s hard on the women left behind.’
‘It is,’ Nancy agreed, ‘but every generation has to leave home some time and the war was as good an excuse as any. And anyway, Jacko’s still at home.’ Bullwhip scraped the last piece of fried bread round the plate, gave an enormous belch, and lay back in his chair; already, his eyes were beginning to close. Nancy waited until a gentle snore emanated from her guest and then began to read her letter once more.
We’re all so relieved to have our brave boys back home
, Jess had written.
I’m sure bringing them back was the right thing to do because it has heartened the country wonderfully. We are all pulling together, which was not perhaps the case before. Rationing is a fearful nuisance but we get by better than most. I expect you remember my speaking of my cousin, Max, who was so good to me when I was a small girl. He has been lodging with us for quite a while and the money does come in useful. I never buy on the black market myself, but Debbie says Max does, and I suspect she may be right. However, he is a huge man with a huge appetite, and quite frankly I shouldn’t know how to satisfy him if it were not for the extras he brings in from time to time. He has contacts with farms on the Wirral and buys pork or bacon when a pig is killed, and sometimes even a joint of mutton. The meat ration is ridiculous – you can only spend 1/10d per week for each adult, and 11d for a child, so as you can imagine, a meat and potato pie is mainly potato, and a roast joint just isn’t possible.
Still, I mustn’t grumble. Things could be a great deal worse. Clothes are not yet rationed, though they say on the wireless it will have to come, but, as I believe I told you, Blackler’s had a half price sale just before the war started and Debbie and I went mad. We both bought thick winter coats, a couple of warm nightgowns each at 2/9d apiece, and some stockings.
We’ve had a couple of air-raid warnings, which was very frightening, but I suspect was just a practice because folk in the LDV
warned us something was going on and told us we’d be in trouble if we were found in the streets without our gas masks. It’s bound to come, however – the bombing, I mean – though of course we all pray it won’t.
And now for more cheerful news. Cinemas, theatres and even restaurants are doing a roaring trade, so Max took me to see
Gone With the Wind
with Vivien Leigh and Clark Gable. It was wonderful. I cried buckets, especially at the end when Rhett Butler is no longer under her spell . . . but I won’t say any more because you won’t have seen it yet, and I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.
I know that letters often go astray in wartime, so I tend to repeat myself, but what I am going to do in future is number every letter. Then if you get 9 and 11 you will know that poor 10 was in a ship which was sunk by some horrible U-boat. Dear Nancy, I have never been more grateful that my baby was a little girl and feel for you over your lovely boys. I am sure, if petitions to God have any influence, they will come through all right because Debbie and I include them in our prayers each night. You said Pete would visit us when he arrives in England, and when he does we shall make a great fuss of him and have what you’d call a corroboree to introduce him to all our friends. I expect he will want to go down to Devonshire to meet the Kerris clan, which is only natural, but do persuade him to come to us just as soon as he can. It would be wonderful to meet your son even though you and I seem destined to live a world away from each other.
Must go now; we women are all knitting for victory and I am halfway through a seaman’s sock for some lucky sailor. And then I must start preparing a rabbit stew (rabbit is not rationed!) for Max and Debbie when they come home from work. I am still manager of Jarvis’s Chemist but I get Thursday afternoons off, hence the letter.
Bye for now,
Jess