Beneath the Southern Cross (46 page)

‘I think that's an excellent idea.' Kathleen set the bowls in front of them and sat at the head of the table.

‘Besides,' Caroline changed the subject and chatted on in a lighter vein, ‘I get so guilty at the way he spends money. I don't mind the presents,' she said, ‘because you don't see him buying them, but the way he chucks money around like there's no tomorrow. Honestly Gran, they all do,' she said through a mouthful of porridge, ‘it's embarrassing in front of the Aussie blokes.'

 

‘How do you do, Mrs De Haan.' He stood at the front door and formally saluted her. ‘Lieutenant Gene Hamilton, United States Marines.' She was taken aback. Was he serious? ‘And I believe these are for you.' He held out the three slim packets of nylon stockings which he'd been hiding behind his back.

Kathleen laughed, and ushered him into the front room just as Caroline bounded down the stairs. ‘Hello, Gene,' she said, ‘are these the nylons?' She took them from her grandmother. ‘Heavens above, three pairs!'

‘Sit down, Gene, please. Would you like a beer?' Kathleen offered. ‘I'm afraid we don't have anything stronger.'

Gene was halfway into an armchair when Caroline grabbed him by the hand. ‘Don't try and be formal, Gran,' she said, dragging the American into the kitchen where Stefan Brandt was seated at the far end of the table having his pre-dinner beer. ‘Gene, this is Stefan. Stefan, Gene.'

The Dutchman rose and shook Gene's hand. ‘How do you do,' he said in his thick guttural accent, and Kathleen noticed Gene's slight reaction. Possibly he thought the man was German, as many others did, well she'd clear up that misconception right from the start, she thought.

‘Stefan's Dutch,' she said briskly, ‘he's from Holland.'

‘That is where I was born,' Stefan corrected her, ‘but most recent I am from Java,' he smiled at Gene, ‘where I work for the Dutch East IndiaCompany.'

Kathleen and Caroline exchanged a look. It was more information than Stefan had ever imparted, he was obviously impressed by an officer in the US Marines.

‘Sit down, everyone. Gene, you're here.' Kathleen patted the chair at the head of the table which was normally reserved for her. He was certainly handsome, she thought as she fetched him a beer. Rather like Douglas Fairbanks only taller.

‘The lace tablecloth,' Caroline remarked as she sat, ‘Gran's showing off.' A present from Tim Kendall which Kathleen was loath to barter, the lace tablecloth rarely saw the light of day.

‘For three pairs of nylons why not?' Kathleen placed Gene's beer in front of him and started to serve the stew.

‘She was going to cook you something fancy,' Caroline said, ‘but I made her promise to do a stew, Gran's famous for her stews, isn't that right, Stefan?'

‘Ja. They are very good.' He beamed uncharacteristically at Gene. ‘Kathleen cook a stew every Friday. Always good.'

Gene gave a polite smile by way of return, he wasn't accustomed to socialising with foreigners. Not foreigners like Stefan anyway. But he tried his hardest to be polite.

‘You're right, Stefan,' he said when he tasted the stew, ‘it's excellent.'

The Dutchman beamed back at him as he piled potatoes and
silver beet onto his plate. ‘Ja. The vegetable too is good,' he pushed the bowl in Gene's direction, ‘You try. Kathleen is very good cook.'

Kathleen and Caroline exchanged amused glances, never had they seen Stefan so animated. He seemed fascinated by the American.

‘Where you are from, Gene?' Stefan asked.

Gene hesitated for a second, automatically baulking at the foreigner's interrogation.

‘Casco, by Sabbathday Lake,' Caroline chimed in, aware that Gene's reluctance to answer may have appeared rude to Stefan, who was obviously trying his best to be friendly.

Kathleen, too, had noted the hesitation. But then she'd also observed that Gene had remained wary of Stefan even after being informed that he was Dutch. Having been married to a man who had suffered persecution, Kathleen was particularly protective of Stefan. She said nothing, but she was starting to view the American through different eyes. For all of his charm and good looks, it seemed to Kathleen that Lieutenant Gene Hamilton was somewhat of a bigot.

‘Yes,' Gene said, aware that his hesitation had seemed rude. ‘Casco, it's a little town in Maine.'

‘Peaceful and pretty, but nothing much happens,' Caroline said.

Gene relaxed and smiled at her. ‘I guess that about sums it up,' he said.

‘You like Sydney?' Stefan asked.

‘Yes, very much,' Gene politely replied. He wished the man would stop questioning him.

‘American soldier have been here two months now, they all like Sydney I think.'

‘Yes, I'm sure they do.'

They finished their stew and Kathleen served tinned peaches in little glass bowls for dessert.

‘I'm crazy about tinned peaches,' Gene said with his Douglas Fairbanks smile, but Kathleen, sensing the American's dislike of Stefan, was no longer so easy to charm.

‘That's good, I'm glad,' she said, pleasantly enough.

Caroline cleared the table and served the coffee. ‘Full cream milk,' she said proudly, placing the jug on the table. Then she raised her cup. ‘To your safe return, Gene,' she said.

Kathleen raised her cup also, ‘Godspeed,' she said.

Gene nodded his thanks and the three of them sipped their coffee, but Stefan seemed unaware of the solemnity of the toast.

‘Ah, you go away,' he said, intrigued. ‘When you go?'

‘In several days,' Gene answered evasively, trying hard not to let his irritation show.

‘Where you go?'

Gene felt his hackles rise. ‘I'm afraid that's classified information,' he said coldly, thistime not bothering to disguise his annoyance.

Even Kathleen had to admit that Stefan's questioning was a little insensitive. She was about to offer more coffee, but the Dutchman continued, apparently oblivious to the American's anger.

‘You leave on the USS
Chicago
?' he asked.

‘What the hell business is it of yours?' Gene was more than angry now, he was deeply suspicious, this could well be the enemy seated opposite him, he thought. ‘Why are you asking me all these questions?' he demanded.

Caroline was appalled. ‘Please, Gene,' she said, ‘I'm sure Stefan didn't mean …'

‘The USS
Chicago
is in the harbour,' Stefan shrugged and looked about the table, seemingly unaware how he could have offended. ‘Ilike to look at the big ships in the harbour.'

‘I'm sorry Mrs De Haan, I'm afraid I must leave.' Gene rose from the table.

‘Very well.' Kathleen rose too. She didn't try to stop him, or to mollify the situation. Tasteless as the Dutchman's questions might have been, they were innocent enough. The American owed Stefan an apology, she thought, indeed he owed them all an apology.

‘Thank you for an excellent meal.'

‘I'm glad you enjoyed it.'

‘Gran, please …' Caroline jumped up from the table, dismayed. Why was her grandmother being so cold? Why wasn't Gene apologising? ‘Gene …'

‘Caroline, see the Lieutenant to the door,' Kathleen instructed. ‘Thank you very much for the stockings,' she added, she certainly wasn't giving the bigot back his nylons, she wasn't that proud.

‘My pleasure, ma'am.'

Caroline was confused and distressed. ‘What happened, Gene?'
she said at the front door. ‘What went wrong? Why …'

But he stopped her, kissing her very gently on the lips. It was the first time he'd done so. The previous Friday he'd given her a chaste peck on the cheek when he'd said goodnight.

‘Goodbye Caroline,' he said. ‘I hope to see you when I return to Sydney.' He looked over her shoulder towards the kitchen. ‘I hope nothing is wrong,' he said, ‘for your sake, I very much hope so.' And abruptly he left, before Caroline could ask him what he meant.

When she returned to the kitchen, Stefan seemed as confused as she was. ‘What I do wrong?' he asked. ‘I talk, I ask questions, what I do wrong?'

‘Nothing, Stefan,' Kathleen said brusquely, ‘you did nothing wrong. But I think it's time we all said goodnight.'

‘I am sorry, Caroline,' Stefan turned apologetically at the back door. ‘I do not wish to anger your American.'

‘It doesn't matter.' But it did matter, she thought. Of all the nights Stefan had to get talkative, he had to choose tonight. Inwardly, she cursed the Dutchman, but she tried to sound pleasant. ‘Goodnight.'

When he'd gone, she said to her grandmother, ‘Why didn't you ask him to stay? Why did you …?'

‘Why didn't he apologise?' Kathleen demanded.

Caroline had no answer for that. ‘He would have, I'll bet,' she said sulkily, ‘if you'd been a bit nicer.'

‘Why should I be nice to a bigot?'

‘He's not.'

‘Yes he is, he's a bigot. I could tell from the moment he walked in, and I'm not going to discuss it any further.'

Kathleen turned her back and started stacking the dishes in the sink, and Caroline slouched off upstairs without offering to help with the washing up. On the odd occasion when she and her grandmother had a genuine disagreement, neither one would give in to the other.

 

Tim Kendall was seated on his Elizabeth Bay balcony, sipping a cup of Milo and listening to Glenn Miller's rendition of ‘Night and Day' playing softly on the gramophone in the lounge room behind him. It was half past eleven on a Sunday evening and his wife,
Ruth, had retired, leaving him alone on the balcony with his nightcap and his music.

He'd reread the letter he'd received that morning from his daughter who had recently left university to join the land army. She was stationed at Bathurst and was picking asparagus at Edgell, she wrote. The work was hard, she was up at three every morning, six days a week, and every bone in her body was aching. But the countryside was beautiful, the very light itself distinctively different from that in the city. ‘Just like the Banjo says, Dad, “… the air, so dry and so clear and bright, refracts the sun with a wondrous light”.' Tim smiled to himself; ‘In the Droving Days' had always been their favourite of Banjo Paterson's poems.

In the whole of her tender nineteen years, Kitty Kendall had never been outside the city of Sydney, and she'd always wanted to see the countryside. Well, she was sure as hell seeing it now, Tim thought. He never worried about Kitty, she'd always land on her feet. It was young Robert he worried about. Robert was off at the war. He'd volunteered, the stupid bugger, and Tim worried about him constantly. It didn't make sense. He thought he'd fought the war to end all wars. He looked out at the harbour and silently prayed that his son would survive.

Tim Kendall had named his firstborn after Robbie O'Shea. It was twenty-five years since Robbie's death, but he was never far from Tim's mind. In fact, with young Robert off at the war, Robbie O'Shea featured more and more in Tim's thoughts these days.

If Robbie had survived, Tim reflected, sipping on his Milo, they would have gone into partnership. Like him, Robbie would now be a wealthy man. He'd hold the controlling interest in a chain of retail stores; he'd own shares in media outlets, both newspaper and radio, and he'd even boast a string of rental properties in Macleay Street. What a joke; Robbie would have loved it.

‘Not bad for two boys from Surry Hills and the Loo,' Tim could hear him say. And he'd be right. Despite the fact that Tim mingled with the powerful and influential these days, he never lost sight of his roots. There was always Robbie's voice in his ear saying, ‘Don't forget where you came from, Tim Kendall.'

His thoughts turned to Kathleen and Caroline. He hadn't seen Robbie's mother and daughter for a whole three weeks, longer than usual, but he'd been very busy. He'd recently switched his
affiliation from the staid, family-run Fairfax press to Frank Packer's brash, more adventurous consortium and the necessary negotiations had taken up a great deal of his time. He must pay a visit to his princess, he told himself, and he must take Kathleen some more goods for barter, she would be running short by now. It was the only way in which Tim could help support them, he knew Kathleen would never accept money.

He tucked Kitty's letter into his pocket, turned off the balcony light and drained the last of his Milo. He stood in the darkness for a moment, savouring a last look at the harbour lights before retiring, and then it happened.

There was a muffled explosion and, before his very eyes, the near side of Garden Island ignited. There was another muffled explosion. What the hell was it, an air raid? But there were no planes in the sky. An invasion? But there were no foreign ships in the harbour.

In a matter of seconds, warning sirens began screaming. Search-lights swept the waters and tracer bullets gleamed red as patrol vessels swung into action. Machine-gun fire cracked the air, then the sounds of heavy artillery, the whistle of shells, the muffled detonations of depth charges. The harbour was a battlefield, but the enemy was invisible.

‘What the hell's happening?' Ruth yelled, running to his side.

‘I don't know,' he yelled back, drawing her close as they watched from the balcony.

 

Kathleen dragged Caroline from her bed at the first scream of the sirens. ‘Air raid,' she said, ‘get downstairs.' It was probably another military exercise, Kathleen thought, damn them, but one had to play safe.

In the Bird household, Brian took charge. ‘Ada, look after Betsy,' he yelled as he grabbed his gasmask and rifle.

‘It's an invasion,' his mother was screaming hysterically. ‘The Japs have invaded!'

‘I reckon it's just an exercise, Mum,' Brian said, trying to keep her calm. It sure as hell didn't sound like one, he thought. ‘I'll go out and check.'