And Fire Falls (12 page)

‘Jessie!’ he exclaimed, handing back the rest of the mail to the startled clerk.

Tom ripped open the letter with trembling hands, unfolded the three sheets of paper and immediately began to read. She was safe! Jessie was back in Townsville, but the news that she had decided to leave the church shocked him. Only for a moment, though, as he had never really wanted his only child to take vows and move away from him.

‘You bloody beauty!’ Tom yelled and a few heads turned in his direction.

He stuffed the letter in his pocket and took back the rest of the mail from the orderly clerk, who grinned at him. It was a good day. He had been promoted, but better than that, he had learned that Jessie was safe in Australia. It did not matter if the Japanese came. All that mattered was his beautiful daughter was safe at home.

*

The heat from the sun was gone on the brigalow plains of western Queensland. Jessica Duffy sat on the verandah of the station house wearing a pair of jodhpurs, white shirt and riding boots. The ride to inspect fences had cleansed her mind of the echoes of the nightmares that had disturbed her sleep last night. She could still see the agony-racked face of Sergeant Bruce King in the water, and remember the fear of flight from the Japanese troops. But at last she had a letter from her father in New Guinea and he expressed both his love and joy at having her home on the station.

He also wrote about army life but concentrated on the funny side, living amongst the men. He was a platoon sergeant now, and the threat to Port Moresby had lifted after the Battle of the Coral Sea. If it was any reassurance, the future promised to be fairly boring, returning to work parties and labouring. She should know that he had no fear his battalion would be seeing action, as the Japanese appeared to have received a bloody nose at the hands of the American naval forces. The war would pass them by, he felt, and they would see out the war doing garrison duties. Jessica noticed a hint of disappointment in the old warrior’s words, but she was pleased that her father was not likely to be ‘sent up the front’, as he would say.

Jessica had been welcomed back by her father’s stockmen as if she had never left, and none questioned her on her decision to leave the order of nuns. The manager, Lenny Tench, provided her with the best quarters in the house where she had grown up, and was deferential to her as the boss’s daughter.

Jessica knew that the first thing she must do, now she was recovered from her ordeal, was to travel to Sydney to go through the protocols of leaving the order. Strangely, she felt a need to travel to Glen View Station and go to the sacred hill of her people. She was not sure why she should be driven to do this, but it seemed a natural thing if she was going to face the disappointment of the mother superior of the order in Sydney.

Donald Macintosh would be in Sydney too. The thought caused her to tingle, but at the same time feel the fear of rejection. She had not forgotten the promise she had made to see him again if ever she gave up her religious vocation. How would he react to her after so many years?

10

S
am lay listless with a very high fever on the improvised mat in the cell. Diane had come to know the little Eurasian boy in the last two weeks since taking him into her care, and in many ways she was struck by how much like Patrick he was. He was a happy little boy with an inquisitive nature, and highly intelligent. She had hoped not to bond with him, but her defences had melted when he sought her arms for comfort.

Now she knelt by him and held his hand as he stared at the concrete ceiling.

‘He’s pretty crook,’ Anne said sympathetically. ‘We need to get him to the infirmary.’

Anne had also taken the little boy under her wing, and she even smuggled morsels of food from the kitchen for him, at great risk to her life from the ever-watchful guards. Dorothy, however, had objected to his presence as a burden. After all, he was, as she pointed out, a half-caste. Her objections were ignored, as Diane and Anne had come to dislike the young woman who selfishly thought only of herself.

Diane agreed and between them they carried the boy to the crowded area set aside to dispense the few medicines still available. Diane laid Sam on a mattress on the floor and one of the female doctors eventually made her way to the anxious women.

‘Who are you?’ the doctor asked Diane.

‘I’m his foster mother,’ she said. ‘Both his parents are dead. Dr Williams assigned him to me for care.’

‘And I’m his foster aunt,’ Anne piped up. ‘What’s wrong with little Sammy?’

The doctor knelt and examined the boy, prodding and poking him. After a while she stood and shook her head. ‘I am not absolutely sure, but I suspect that he has pneumonia.’

‘What can we do?’ Diane asked.

‘He needs good food and rest,’ the doctor replied. ‘That is about all I can suggest. You can leave him here.’

‘Who will tend to him?’ Anne asked the doctor.

‘He’ll be looked after as best as possible by the ladies assigned to assist me,’ she replied.

‘Well, I’ll be one of them,’ Anne said. ‘I’d like to be transferred to the infirmary.’

The doctor appeared annoyed, but when she looked into the eyes of the Englishwoman she could see a determination not to budge from her request. ‘I will see that you are given a shift in the infirmary,’ she said.

‘Then you can take the other shift,’ Anne said to Diane. ‘That way he will have one of us by his side at all times.’

‘You will be expected to help the staff with others if you are transferred here,’ the doctor said.

‘We can do that,’ Diane answered. ‘I’ll go and ask to be relieved of cooking duties.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Anne said quickly to Diane. ‘You’ll be needed in the kitchen.’

It dawned on Diane what Anne meant. Working in the kitchen would give her access to the rations, although the diet had been reduce to a rice meal supplemented with a spinach-like vegetable called
kangkong.

So the shifts began, with Diane sitting beside Sam from 6 pm to 6 am. At times the little boy would cry out in his tiny voice swapping from English to Malay and Chinese. Diane watched on helplessly as his body was racked by fevers. All she could do was hold his hand and wipe his brow until Anne came to relieve her in the morning.

After one shift in the kitchen Diane had been able to pilfer a small portion of tinned corn beef and was leaving with her head down when she ran into one of the Japanese guards. She had not seen him and had not carried out the compulsory bow. He stepped back and with the butt of his rifle slammed her in the head. It happened so fast that all Diane could think of was the pain as she collapsed at his feet.

For a moment all went black, and when she opened her eyes the guard was towering above her, his face filled with rage. He was yelling in Japanese, a language Diane did not understand. She tried to move and a kick in the ribs brought more pain. The cloth containing the small amount of precious processed meat was next to her, where it had fallen from her hands.

The guard bent down and retrieved the cloth, opening it. He waved the parcel in Diane’s face when she was able to painfully stand and make her bow. It was obvious that he was asking her why she had removed the ration from the kitchen.

Diane was marched to the office of the Japanese interpreter who was a member of the dreaded Japanese secret police known as the
Kempeitai.
They were the equivalent of the German Gestapo and the Japanese officer had a deceptively soft face for a man in his middle twenties.

The guard unwrapped the parcel of bully beef on the officer’s desk and Diane knew she was in serious trouble. Despite the fact that the Japanese had placed the prisoners on meagre rations, they dealt severely with anyone who tried to take extra food.

‘Why have you steal food from kitchen?’ he barked. ‘You are not honourable person. You steal from other women.’

‘I have a very sick child who needs extra food to recover,’ Diane said, her head still aching from the blow. She felt sick and forced down the urge to vomit.

‘No good reason,’ the secret police officer said. ‘Many women have sick children. You are not a person of honour. Your crime will be punished.’ He reached for the pistol in its holster at his hip and placed it on the table in front of Diane.

Diane suddenly vomited on the floor, partly from fear, partly from the blow to her head.

‘You clean floor, you dirty woman,’ the officer yelled in disgust. He said something in Japanese to the guard, who saluted and left the office, then returned with a bucket of water and a rag.

Diane knelt down on her hands and knees and began cleaning up her vomit.

‘I think of suitable punishment for you,’ the officer said when Diane had completed the task, and Diane fought the urge to be sick again. She knew that the Japanese officer could kill her at any moment.

He reached for the pistol and pointed it at Diane, who was still on her hands and knees. She closed her eyes and the tears ran down her cheeks, not for her own death, but for the loss of Patrick and now Sam.

Diane heard the click of the firing pin, but no explosion.

‘I must forget load gun,’ the officer laughed, and was joined by the guard in his delight at seeing Diane on her hands and knees trembling with fear. ‘You go back others. I tell them that you steal food.’

Diane could hardly find the strength to move, but somehow she forced herself to stand up. When she was on her feet she bowed from the waist with her hands at her side and was pushed roughly by the guard out of the office. Hardly believing she was still alive, Diane stumbled over to the infirmary, blood oozing from her head wound.

When she arrived she was met by a female doctor. She guided Diane to a chair and examined the wound.

‘It will require stitches,’ the doctor said. ‘I’m afraid that I will have to do so without any local anaesthetic. It will hurt.’

‘I don’t think the pain will bother me,’ Diane said. ‘At least it will remind me I am still alive.’ She told the doctor the events of the last few, long minutes. The doctor expressed her sympathy as she retrieved cotton and a sewing needle. She prepared Diane by cutting away the hair around the wound and applying a small quantity of precious alcohol.

‘You are caring for the little Eurasian boy, Sam?’

‘Yes,’ Diane winced as the sharp point of the needle pieced her scalp. ‘How is he?’

‘I have good news,’ the doctor said, slipping the needle through the skin and drawing the cotton after it.

Diane could feel each movement and gritted her teeth. It was painful but within the bounds of her pain threshold. Tears ran down her face as the Japanese officer’s words echoed in her mind . . . ‘
You dirty woman.’
She was not a dirty woman, and the sting of those words was worse than the needle.

‘Sam has recovered enough to leave the infirmary.’

When the doctor had finished sewing Diane’s wound, she stepped back and said with as warm a smile as she could, ‘Done. I will remove the stitches when I think the wound has healed enough. Just try to keep the sutures clean and dry.’

Diane thanked her and hurried to where Sam was accommodated. She found him sitting up reading a battered copy of a children’s book. When he spotted her, he dropped the book and reached out with his arms. ‘Mummy,’ he said, and it was the first time she had been called that since she had said goodbye to Patrick on the railway station a lifetime ago. Diane began to sob and gently took Sam in her arms. The pain that throbbed in her head no longer mattered.

*

Sarah Macintosh was annoyed. Women’s fashions had deteriorated as the war dragged on. Austere times had seen dresses become more like uniforms, and the colours were drab. Shoulder pads had become the fashion, and young women adopted a new hairstyle called the victory roll. The city itself had also changed. People were building air-raid shelters in their backyards and a blackout was enforced to avoid providing the enemy with visible landmarks for night bombing raids. Posters were everywhere, warning that loose talk was dangerous, and that Australians had to fight, work or perish because the Japanese were coming south.

Sarah was annoyed because she had many stylish dresses in her wardrobe but she knew that if she wore them she would stand out, perhaps be taken for a black marketeer. It was patriotic to wear the drab clothes of the masses. But tonight she had been invited to go to the movies with a handsome young man from the public service. He had dealings with her brother and they had been introduced by Donald at an afternoon of tennis at the Macintosh mansion. Her father knew Charles Huntley’s family and approved her date. It would be a double date as Sarah’s schoolfriend, Allison Lowe, would be accompanying them with her air force boyfriend, who would naturally be wearing his officer’s uniform. People had become accustomed to seeing the streets full of uniformed men on leave.

Charles turned up at the front door wearing a smart suit and carrying a bouquet of flowers. He was in his late twenties and sported a smart clipped moustache. His dark hair was slicked back with hair oil and almost shined in the dark. Sarah had decided to wear one of her stylish pre-war dresses.

‘You look divine,’ Charles said, stepping forward and handing the flowers to her.

‘Thank you,’ Sarah said, accepting his arm and walking down the steps to his car. She noticed that it had not been fitted out to run on gas and she guessed that Charles had ways of procuring petrol in constrained times. That spoke of money and influence.

They drove into the city to the movie theatre, a plush upmarket cinema, where they met Allison and her boyfriend, Flying Officer Paul Jenkins. He looked dashing in his military dress uniform, and Sarah gave her friend an approving look for her choice of escort. The pilot’s wings on Allison’s date also garnered approving looks from the other ladies in front of the movie theatre, as airmen were seen as a more glamorous class of fighting man by young ladies.

Sarah and Allison exchanged polite pecks while the two men shook hands.

‘Well,’ Charles said, ‘it appears that Paul and I are fortunate to be escorting the two most beautiful women in Sydney tonight.’

‘You are a charmer,’ Allison said with a smile. ‘I wish Paul could be as charming.’

‘Steady on, old girl,’ Paul responded. ‘Didn’t I shout you an ice cream sundae before we came here?’

‘I do like Greta Garbo movies,’ Allison said, gazing at the poster in the foyer. The actress was wearing a long, clinging dress in the main picture, and in the smaller one was kissing the leading actor, Melvyn Douglas. ‘I have heard that
Two-Faced Woman
is very romantic and funny.’

They entered the sumptuous palace of dreams and were ushered to the expensive seats in the top tier of the theatre.

When the lights went down and the curtain rolled back, ‘God Save the King’ was played and each and every person stood patriotically as a picture of King George VI was displayed on the screen. The curtains closed, then rolled back dramatically once again as the first item, a newsreel from the battlefields of North Africa, began to play.

At the interval, before the main feature was shown, Allison and Sarah made their way to the rest room.

‘How did you meet Charles?’ Allison asked, reapplying her lipstick. ‘He looks like a good choice.’

‘I met him through my brother,’ Sarah said. ‘Charles works for the government in procurements. Donald has been in the United States representing the Macintosh companies for future contracts with the Americans in the Pacific. Charles’s work is vital to the country’s interests,’ Sarah added, so her girlfriend wouldn’t feel too smug about her dashing RAAF escort.

‘You’re lucky to have a man in your life who doesn’t have to go off to war,’ Allison said wistfully. ‘I really like Paul, and I think he is on the verge of asking me to marry him.’

‘That’s wonderful news!’ Sarah exclaimed.

Allison turned away from the mirror and looked sadly at Sarah. ‘I think he’s going to ask me tonight. He said there was something important he wanted to talk to me about.’

Sarah could see the uncertainty in her friend’s expression. ‘If you love him I can’t see any reason why you should not accept a proposal of marriage,’ she said. ‘Life is too short these days to let any chance of happiness slip away.’

‘That is easy to say,’ Allison responded, ‘But Paul is being posted out to God knows where soon. What if . . .?’ Allison could not finish the sentence and broke down crying. The other women in the rest room ignored the scene, as it was something becoming more common as the death lists were published in the newspapers and telegrams arrived at homes of a man killed, wounded or missing in action.

Sarah placed her arm around Allison’s shoulder to comfort her and felt just a little guilty for the fact that Charles was protected from the horrors of the battlefront. For a fleeting moment she thought about her cousin, David, who had been fighting for years, ever since the Spanish Civil War. The government was issuing badges to people who had close family connections to the war and Sarah wondered if she qualified for one, having a cousin at the front.

‘Here,’ Sarah said, passing Allison a dainty handkerchief. ‘Dry your eyes, fix your make-up and we will join our men.’