Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms (17 page)

Mary makes a mental note to read those poems a few times over before sneaking the book to Hiroshi. ‘What does the A. B. stand for?'

‘Andrew Barton, but everyone calls him Banjo,' Mrs Smith says as if she knows him personally. ‘His nickname as a child was Barty, but apparently when he started publishing his work it was under the name “The Banjo”, which everyone
knows was adopted from one of his favourite horses. Can you imagine that, Mary, naming yourself after a horse? I haven't heard anything more ridiculous in my life. But I do like his poetry.'

‘My dad's nickname is Banjo too,' Mary says excitedly. ‘He taught himself to play the banjo, that's why, and he is the best player in all of Wiradjuri country.' Mary speaks proudly, but Mrs Smith ignores her comment, almost as if she wants to ignore the fact that Mary and her family are Black, and continues to look through her prized volume. Mary is a little nervous now, but to her surprise the woman hands the Paterson book back to her and takes another book from the shelf.

‘You
must
read Henry Lawson as well, because, like Banjo Paterson, he is one of the best poets in Australia. It's one of the first things I learned when I came here. They are not like our British poets Keats and Blake, but they are very good nonetheless.' Mrs Smith's eyes almost light up when she talks about
her
British poets, and Mary thinks that there is possibly something about her boss she doesn't know. ‘I can't imagine anyone ever writing more beautifully than these men about this country that is now my home.'

‘Do you mean I can borrow this?' Mary asks, trying to hide her excitement but wanting to be absolutely clear about what Mrs Smith is offering.

‘Yes, I think it is very important for your education, Mary. There is history to be learned, my girl. You see, Henry Lawson's mother, Louisa, helped get women the right to vote in Australia. She was what we call a suffragette. We owe her a lot.'

Mary doesn't point out that her own mother doesn't have
the right to vote yet – and neither does her father, for that matter – so she doesn't owe Louisa Lawson anything. She just keeps her mouth shut; she wants the books and right now that's all that matters. She feels an overwhelming sense of relief and gratitude because she didn't have to ‘borrow' the books and that makes her feel even better.

‘
In the Days When the World was Wide and Other Verses
,' Mrs Smith reads the title and hands the volume to Mary. ‘Lawson was born in Grenfell, which is not far from here, Mary, so that's something to remember too. His inspiration may have come from these very parts.'

Mary thinks it's strange that Mrs Smith is so loyal to Cowra and wonders how she can forget about her own land in England so easily. Mary could never imagine doing that – she'll always just love Cowra.

She nods, takes the books with genuine gratitude and says, ‘These are wonderful, Mrs Smith. Thank you. I will read them over and over again.' It's not a lie; she will read them over and over before giving them to Hiroshi, so if Mrs Smith quizzes her she'll have the answers.

For the last few days when Mary has visited Hiroshi, he has been sad. He appreciates all the meagre offerings of food she has brought with her, but he barely tastes anything any more. It's like his senses are failing him as he spirals into an emotional darkness that matches his surrounds.

In some ways, he's glad to be in a physically dark space so he can hide, withdraw into his even darker emotions and memories. Mary's smile each visit offers only momentary flashes of brightness to his day, and he is struggling to remain sane with so much solitude, only his thoughts as company.

When she descends the ladder, he notices something bulky under her dress that seems too big to be food. And he doesn't even know if he could eat much more – while he is hungry, he is also nauseous, and wondering if there is any purpose in eating to stay alive.

‘Hello,' Hiroshi says softly, standing, as he always does, out of respect, but with shoulders sagging.

‘Konichiwa!' Mary responds, so full of life and energy Hiroshi is taken aback. He has not seen her this bright ever.

He is grateful to hear his own language again, even the simple greeting that he had taught her weeks ago that she now feels comfortable saying. He immediately wonders what has happened to make Mary so cheerful – perhaps the war is over?

‘I have something for you. A surprise,' she says, handing him some rabbit stew and a jar of water, before working the surprise out from under her dress in as ladylike a fashion as possible.

Hiroshi takes the food and water and doesn't have much interest and even less imagination at that moment to begin to wonder what his surprise might be; news that the war is over, or word of his friends from the camp is what he would like. He sets the food down beside him and looks at Mary like a lost child.

‘Two books of poetry,' she says, ‘the best poets from Australia, apparently. They are from around this area. I thought you would like to read something.'

Hiroshi can see that Mary is excited about the gift, but as hard as he tries, he just cannot muster a reaction to match her mood. He can see the disappointment in her face when he can only manage to nod his thanks. He takes the books, appreciative of the gesture, knowing that they must have come from someone else, but not knowing from whom or where; unaware that the girl in front of him was willing to commit a crime, get herself into a lot of trouble, to make the gift possible. Hiroshi wants to be grateful but poetry will not fix anything. Nothing.

The moment is awkward. There is so much expectation and emotion: one wants to see a smile; the other wants to see the world again. Both want the space between them to be different.

‘I better go,' Mary says, embarrassed that her gift has not been received as it was intended. She wonders if she has overstepped the mark, if she has misinterpreted their friendship. If Hiroshi really doesn't care about anything other than getting out, then the books of poetry are a stupid offering.

Seeing the disappointment in her face, Hiroshi steps towards her. She does not hide her feelings well, and that makes Hiroshi feel uncomfortable. ‘Arigat-o,' is all he can say. He moves to touch her arm, but knows that is not the right thing to do. It is not respectful. But he says, ‘Thank you,' once more and smiles sincerely.

Mary's heart fills with relief that he is grateful and that they are friends.

I
T
R
AINED
R
ED
M
UD
: D
UST STORM ENVELOPES
C
OWRA

No one at Erambie needs the newspaper to tell them about the dust storm that has beset Cowra over the last two days. The reddish brown dust from the dry western plains turned the rain into globules of red mud falling from the sky. The kids all loved it. They got as red and dirty and muddy as they could. But Joan found it a nightmare to get the bed linen clean. It felt like she was wearing her own path from the kitchen where she had to boil the water in copper pots before carrying it to the tub outside. Washing in a galvanised tub was also hard on the back.

Everyone is keeping windows and doors shut tight to keep as much dust out as possible. With rising temperatures taking the mercury to 93 degrees Farenheit with high humidity, no one is comfortable. Mary and her family sit in the kitchen but the walls are thin and the heat penetrates from early in the day. Although locals complain about the humidity, everyone is grateful that the drought looks like it will be broken by the downpour of rain, regardless of the dust storm. Joan is trying not to complain too much about the extra work in the laundry when rain is so needed.

All of the kids and most of the adults just want to swim in the Lachlan River, which is usually fed by the summer rain rather than the unexpected downpours of recent days. No one cares if the water is cold or not, the wet relief is all
that matters. And the heat doesn't seem to bother the kids as much as the adults. They are out for hours on end picking blackberries along the river and making plenty of noise, because snakes like blackberries too. And according to the stories that Uncle Kevin tells, snakes also like little kids. The stories he tells make little James never want to leave Mary's side, but she doesn't mind. She likes having James and the other kids around and she teaches the younger ones to only pick large, plump, deeply coloured berries because, she says, ‘They are the ripest and taste the best.'

For Mary, the dust storm also means extra cleaning at the Smiths' as a thin veil of reddish dust has settled throughout their home too. As she dusts the bookshelves she looks carefully at what else she might take to Hiroshi. Even though his reaction to her previous gift wasn't as she had hoped, she didn't think she should stop trying to keep his mind occupied, and there is little else she can offer to do. She looks for the poets Blake and Keats that Mrs Smith mentioned and finds them after some searching, but she guesses that they are prized possessions so will most definitely be missed, and decides not to ‘borrow' them.

As she dusts the sideboard at the Smiths' she sees a pile of letters that have Red Cross stamps on them. They are addressed to people in Italy. She picks them up to read the names.

‘Thank you, Mary,' Mrs Smith says, taking them from her. ‘They are letters from the Italian soldiers, probably to their families, their girlfriends.'

Mary frowns.

‘We have a letter exchange program,' Mrs Smith explains. ‘The men write letters home. We post them, and quite often, they get letters in return.'

‘All the prisoners do this?' Mary asks cautiously to conceal her excitement.

‘No, just the Italians,' Mrs Smith says. ‘Oh, we did have one Japanese soldier, but mostly they don't write home.'

When she arrives at the air raid shelter late that night, Mary can't wait to tell Hiroshi she has found a way to post his letter. But before she can share her news, Hiroshi gently takes his sleeve and wipes Mary's right cheek, an uncharacteristic gesture. It is the first time they have touched and while Mary is shocked, she doesn't show it, nor does she move.

‘What is this?' he asks as he wipes her left cheek and looks at the dirty material, forgetting for the moment that back home he would never be so forward with a woman.

Mary explains what a dust storm is as best she can, trying to describe the debilitating heat and how it was talked about on the wireless at the Smiths' place.

Hiroshi has experienced the Cowra heat at the compound, and even though some of the dust has made it under the corrugated iron sheet and down to where he is hiding, he cannot imagine what the actual dust storm looked like above.

Mary can see that he is frowning with confusion. ‘Do you have red dust and dust storms in Japan?' she asks.

‘My home is near the sea, we have short, mild winters and long, hot summers, but we don't have the dust like you. We have a lot of rain in summer, and many typhoons.'

‘Typhoons?'

‘Yes, where my family live is the most dangerous place in all of Japan because of the typhoons. They are big storms that come from the ocean with very strong winds and torrential rain.'

‘That's probably why we don't have typhoons in Cowra – there is no sea for hundreds of miles.'

‘It rains mainly in the middle of the year when it is warm, but in spring and winter we have very little rain.'

‘When is the best time of year?' Mary asks. ‘When is it the prettiest?'

‘Autumn is beautiful.' Hiroshi's mind wanders back to his home. ‘We have very colourful leaves, we call them koyo.'

‘Koyo, sounds like yoyo,' Mary says.

‘Yes, and the koyo in autumn are like the cherry blossoms in the spring. And it has been a tradition for a long time for people to view the koyo.'

‘Where do people go, is there a special place?'

‘Oh, Mary, there are many special places all over Japan, each region has its own time in autumn when the leaves are at their most red or yellow or orange. Hiroshima, Fukushima, Nagana, Tokyo and Kyoto – they all have mountains and gardens people visit to enjoy the beauty of koyo.' Hiroshi closes his eyes for a few seconds.