Billy Mack's War (16 page)

‘You betcha,' the young man replied. ‘Ring the bell, win a prize, easy as that.'

‘Aye, easy as that,' Dad replied. He handed over the ticket and took the hammer. ‘Stand back, Billy-boy. Speedo.'

I grinned. This seemed like a pretty good bet. It looked like I'd get a prize after all. Dad had built a railway through the jungle on a handful of rice a day — he'd have to be a sure thing with a sledgehammer in his hands.

He ground his feet into the sawdust, spat on his palms, rubbed them together and felt the weight of the hammer in his hands. Then, with a grunt, he arched his back swung the hammer around over his shoulder, and brought it crashing down on the target at his feet. The striker flew up the track, on a certain path to the big brass bell and my appointment with a prize.

In the end it travelled no more than two-thirds of the way to the bell, before pausing and falling all the way back down to the bottom of the track, where it gave a disappointing clunk.

‘Never mind, sir. Like to try again?' the young man asked.

Dad simply shook his head and handed the sledgehammer back. ‘Come on, Billy-boy, it's time we were going.'

‘You almost did it, Dad,' I said. ‘Have one more go. Please?'

‘No, Billy, it's time we were going,' he repeated. ‘We've wasted enough money here for one day.'

‘Does that mean we can come back tomorrow?' I asked, but just as I had come to expect, he didn't reply to that. He just kept walking in front of me, his long legs making it hard for me to keep up.

After we'd eaten our dinner in a different pub from the night before, we headed back to our hotel room. Dad wasn't saying much, and he plodded up the stairs in front of me as if the last of his energy had been sapped by swinging that sledgehammer. ‘Get ready for bed,' he said as he opened the door to our room, and I knew better than to do anything other than exactly what he'd said.

I got into bed, rolled towards the window and tried to go to sleep, while Dad read by the light of his bedside lamp. I had my eyes shut and was almost asleep when I heard his mattress creak. Then the lamp flicked off. I didn't think anything of it until I heard the door latch rattle and the door close. No, he was just going to the loo before bed.

I lay there, waiting for him to come back, but he didn't. After quite some time, during which I drifted in and out of that drowsiness that comes at the beginning of sleep, I realised that he still hadn't returned. Slipping from under the covers and crossing the cold floor, I opened the door and poked my head out into the hallway. It was deserted. I listened for sounds from the direction of the bath room — perhaps he was taking a bath. But there was nothing to be heard, except someone snoring loudly in one of the rooms further down the corridor.

I walked down to the bathroom, half expecting to hear Dad crying again, but the door was wide open, and there was no one inside. Returning to our room, I sat on the edge of the bed and wondered what I should do next. The clock on the wall said that it was well after eleven, and the front office closed at eight. So I sat there in my pyjamas, all the lights on and the door latched shut, waiting for my father to come back from wherever he'd gone, and wondering how long I might have to wait.

Eventually I decided to lie down on top of the covers. I wasn't going to go back to sleep, mind — I was just intending to rest until Dad came back. At least, that was the plan. It didn't work though, because I awoke after what felt like a moment or two to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, then the rattling of the doorknob.

Dad came through the door muttering something about the light being on. He seemed cranky with me, even though
I
wasn't the one who'd staggered back into our hotel room in the early hours of the morning.

‘Dad, where have you been?' I asked.

‘Mind yerself, laddie,' he growled, his accent making him barely understandable. ‘Mind who ye're asking what, laddie-me-boy.' He fumbled with his clothes, trying to get them off, cursing them. Finally he gave up and simply fell onto the bed. He mumbled something else about the light, and almost instantly he was snoring.

I went over to him. He smelled strange, and his face looked like it had collapsed a bit, his mouth all soft and floppy. He was fast asleep on top of the covers with the light blazing above his head. I wondered where I recognised that smell from.

I took one of the spare blankets from the wardrobe and spread it over him. He muttered something in his sleep, but I didn't catch a single word of it. Then I latched the door, turned off the light and got back into my own bed, lying there wide awake in the dark for a long time, listening to my father's deep, unconscious breathing. I wished I was at home. I'd already had enough of the city. Besides, Ma would have known what to do.

Then I remembered where I knew that smell from. I recalled Stan Whittaker slouching at the door to my grandfather's shed, trying to get his words out and smelling awful. Yes, that's what it was — my father was drunk.

We missed breakfast the next morning. The first thing we knew was the knock at the door. Dad was still asleep, and when he said something I didn't understand and rolled over, I got out of bed and went to the door to see who it was.

‘Good morning,' said Mrs Powell. ‘Is your father there?'

‘He's still asleep,' I replied.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Is he? I was just wondering if you were still planning to check out this morning.'

‘I think so,' I said. ‘We're going back to Evansbridge today.'

‘Yes, I thought that was the case. Because checkout is at ten-thirty, and it's now just gone eleven o'clock, do you see?'

‘Should I wake up my dad?'

‘I think that might be best, don't you?'

‘Yes, ma'am, I'll do it now,' I answered. ‘Sorry.'

‘Thank you,' she replied, and turned on her heel and walked off down the hallway.

Dad wasn't easy to wake up. There was a lot of grumbling, mumbling, muttering and growling before he finally sat upright, frowned, held his head and said, ‘What time is it you say, Billy-boy?'

‘It's after eleven,' I said.

‘Oh, is it?' He sighed. ‘Best get going then. Are you ready to go?'

‘I suppose so,' I said. ‘I mean, I'm not dressed —'

‘Good, good. Oh, my head. Hand me that towel and point me in the direction of the bathroom, laddie.' As he stood up he grabbed at the right side of his stomach and winced.

‘Are you all right?' I asked him.

‘Aye, just my liver reminding me why last night wasn't such a great idea. Get dressed and pack your gear, laddie.
As
soon as I get back from the bath room were moving out.'

While he took a long shower, I thought about what my father had done. He'd gone and got drunk. So drunk he'd had to be woken just before lunch. I decided I wouldn't tell Ma what had happened. It wouldn't change anything, wouldn't make anyone feel better. All I'd say was what a great time we'd had in Launceston, and tell her about the carnival, the shopping, perhaps even about the man who tried to sell us several hats. But nothing else, especially not Mrs Tierney, and definitely not the crying or the getting drunk.

Dad was quiet on the long drive home. I guess he was probably embarrassed. Mid-afternoon we stopped in a town with a name I don't remember. ‘Hungry?' Dad asked as we pulled up at a service station.

‘I could eat now,' I answered.

‘All right, we'll stop here,' he said. ‘Get a pie or something. Okay?'

I shrugged. ‘Sure, if you like.'

We paid for the petrol and a couple of pork pies, and crossed the street to a little park. From our bench near the seesaws we could see an old stone bridge. ‘Convicts built that bridge,' Dad said. ‘Prisoners. You know, I never really thought about that until now.'

‘Didn't you know about the convicts?' I asked.

‘Oh aye, but I never
thought
about it. Men cutting stone and laying bricks not because they wanted to but because they were afraid not to, you see?'

I didn't see at all.

‘Billy, I'm sorry you had to see that yesterday,' he said. ‘In the truck, after we left Heather Tierney's place. The crying. A wee bit embarrassing, all that.'

‘Don't worry about it,' I said.

‘It was all a bit much, telling her about Duncan. It made me remember a lot of things I didn't want to go back to.'

‘But you told her the truth, so you don't have to think about that any more,' I said, trying to be encouraging.

‘I told her the truth that she needed to know, laddie, that's all.'

I looked at him. He was still staring at the bridge. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I told her he died standing proud and tall, like a Highlander should.'

‘And didn't he?'

‘No, Billy-boy, he didn't. He died squirming in the mud, sobbing and begging for his life.'

‘That's not so bad,' I said. ‘I think that's what most people would do. Isn't it?'

‘Aye, and many did. And don't get me wrong here — Duncan Tierney was a brave soldier, one of the best. Savvy, too. He was the man to have with you in a scrap, no mistake. But regardless of how he fought, in the end he died hugging his knees and pleading for mercy. And I couldn't tell his ma that. She doesn't need to know.'

‘No, I suppose not,' I said.

‘It was bad enough that he was captured to begin with. And then … then there was the other wee thing. There was something else I couldn't tell her, laddie.'

‘What is it?'

‘Remember how I said four men escaped?'

I nodded.

He hung his head. ‘Well, eight died.'

‘Eight?'

‘Aye. Those four who came back had to choose one man each from the camp to die with them. To teach the rest of us a lesson, you see.'

I was so stunned that I couldn't speak. What can you say to something like that?

Dad went on. ‘So they made him a murderer as well, you see. He tried to escape, then they made him a murderer. It's not so hard to take your punishment if you know you've broken the rules. But to make others suffer with you, when they've done nothing …' Dad took a deep breath. ‘And I couldn't tell her that. She didn't need to know that, did she?'

I shook my head and kept my mouth shut. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't sound stupid and pathetic. And childish.

‘Aye, it's for the best,' Dad said at last. Then he tried to smile at me. ‘I've never told anyone about that before. It's the kind of thing I'd have told my mates. You had to have a mate in those places or you died, Billy-boy. Nothing was surer. When you were sick they fed you their portion, and when they were sick, you did the same. You wouldn't survive without them. You couldn't.'

‘And you had good mates?'

‘Aye, the best. But now all my mates are dead or … or somewhere else. I do miss them dreadfully, laddie,' he said.

I did something then that felt strange and right at the same time. I put my arms around him. I could feel how bony and thin his shoulders and arms were as I hugged him and said,
‘I
can be your mate now, Dad. If that's okay.'

‘Aye, that you can be,' he agreed, wiping his eyes and smiling again. ‘You can be my mate.'

We didn't say anything for a while, until he suddenly stood up. ‘Finished eating, Billy-boy?'

‘Aren't you going to eat your pie?' I asked.

Dad shook his head. ‘I'm not hungry. Come on, let's get home. Your ma's going to be getting worried.' He led me out of the park overlooking a bridge built by men in chains.

Chapter 20 Danny

‘That's amazing,' Danny said. ‘They had to choose someone else from the camp to die with them? How could you do that?'

‘Indeed,' Mr McAuliffe replied.

‘Yes, that's pretty heavy stuff,' said Dad, who had been sitting and listening as well.

‘Was that the last time your dad ever talked to you about what happened to Tierney?' Danny asked.

‘Pretty much.'

‘Did he ever tell Mrs Tierney the truth about how her son died?'

‘What was that going to achieve?'

‘Nothing, I guess,' Danny said. ‘I just wondered if he ever felt bad about not telling her exactly what happened, exactly
how
it happened.'

‘Felt bad? My dad felt bad about practically everything to do with the war, Daniel.'

‘So was he better after going to see Mrs Tierney?'

Mr McAuliffe frowned. ‘He didn't do it to make himself feel better, Daniel. Given the choice, I doubt he would have done it at all.'

‘I know, but I thought maybe he felt … I don't know, like he'd got something off his chest.'

‘No, it didn't get anything off his chest, Daniel. I think it ate him up, that he'd had to hold back some of the truth.' He paused for a moment. ‘And then, to top it off, my mother wanted to know exactly how it had all gone, and I had to tell her.'

Chapter 21 Billy

We arrived home well after dark. Leaving the truck at my grandparents' place, we walked the rest of the way to our house, after loading ourselves up with the presents Dad had bought. I could hear the creek running fast, and a bird rustled and called softly in one of the trees. Dad had his arm around my shoulder, and it felt good to be close to him, as if everything we'd seen and done, everything
I'd
seen, was between us, and for that reason was special. It seemed to me that Ma had been right in insisting that Dad take me along. It wasn't going to make up for more than three years, but it wasn't a bad start.

Ma heard us come in and emerged from the twins' bedroom with a finger to her lips. She looked at Dad with a half smile, as if she wasn't sure if she could let herself smile properly. He went straight to her and hugged her, and they didn't say a word.

Finally Ma let go of Dad and turned to me. ‘Hello, Billy,' she said. ‘Did you have fun?'

‘Yes, Ma,' I answered.

‘Did you like the city?'

‘Yes, Ma. It was big.'

‘Cities usually are,' she said, smiling. Then she spotted the parcels on the table. ‘Ooh, gifts!'

‘For Christmas,' Dad said. ‘Stay out of them. I'm going to have a wash.'

‘I'll put the kettle on,' Ma said. ‘So, Billy, what's in the boxes?' she asked as soon as Dad had left the room.

‘I can't tell you, Ma. You'll get yours at Christmas-time, just like everyone else.'

‘Fair enough.' She filled the kettle and lit the stove. ‘Oh bother,' she muttered, turning around on the spot a couple of times, as if she was looking for something.

‘What is it, Ma?' I asked.

‘This'll have to do for a teapot,' she said, talking down a saucepan from its hook on the wall.

‘What happened to the teapot?'

‘Granddad broke it,' she said.

‘How? Did he drop it?'

She frowned as she thought about her answer. ‘Let's just say that he didn't mean to break it,' she said slowly. ‘And that Stan Whittalzer won't be visiting for a while.'

‘What happened, Ma?' I asked. ‘Did Stan come over again?'

‘Yes, and I think it was probably for the last time.'

‘Did he try to hurt you, Ma?' I asked.

‘Billy —'

‘Did he?'

‘Billy, I don't want to discuss it,' she said firmly. ‘And keep your voice down, will you?'

‘Does Dad know?' I asked.

She glared at me. ‘It's been dealt with, Billy.'

‘But does Dad know?' I repeated.

‘Now you listen here. Your father's been through a lot. And it's over with, all right? Your grandfather handled the situation. Understand?'

‘Yes, Ma,' I agreed.

‘Promise?'

‘Yes, Ma.'

‘Good.' She turned back to her makeshift teapot and poured tea-leaves into the saucepan. ‘So tell me, how was it really, this trip to Launceston? I imagine your father will tell me that everything went smoothly. Did it?'

‘It was good,' I told her.

‘No dramas?'

‘We went to a carnival,' I said. ‘They had a coconut-shy and those clowns with the mouths that you drop the balls into.'

‘Great! Did you win anything?'

‘No,' I replied. ‘But we had fairy-floss.'

‘Lovely! And how was the hotel?'

‘Fine. Quite nice, I suppose. A bit smelly. Breakfast was good. The lady made me bacon and eggs and toast, and she put some kind of leafy thing on top which I thought I had to eat, but Dad said I didn't have to. we had steak as well.'

Ma smiled. ‘How did you go sleeping in the same room as him? Did he keep you awake? He tends to talk a bit in his sleep.'

‘Does he?'

‘Oh yes. You didn't notice?'

‘He didn't really keep me awake much,' I said.

‘That's good. And … uh … how did it go with Mrs Tierney?'

That one I had to think about. I thought about the truth only partly told, and the distraught old lady who might have been crushed forever if Dad had told her every last detail. And I considered Dad crying in the truck punching the wheel, sobbing like a heartbroken child.

‘I think he told her what she needed to know. I think she'll be all right,' I said.

Ma sighed and smiled. ‘That's really good, Billy. I'm glad it went well. And I'm glad you went along as well.'

‘Yeah, me too, Ma.'

There was a movement at the door from the hallway. I looked across to see Dad standing there, towelling his hair dry. He caught my eye, and we exchanged a long, silent look. Then, without any expression, he turned and walked into his room.

A couple of days later I was in town with Dad. He went off to the post office while I went to buy a few things for Ma from Dalhousie's. I was just coming out of the shop when I saw Doug stroll by, his dog following along at a short distance. He had an old bicycle wheel — no tyre — and he was guiding it along the side of the street, keeping it rolling in a straight line with light taps from a stick. He didn't see me, but I said hello anyway.

He grabbed the rim of the wheel and stopped. Then he turned to me. ‘Hi, Billy,' he said. ‘Been getting some groceries?'

I held up the two bags of shopping, as if to say, ‘Well, obviously.'

‘I'm surprised you're still buying your food and stuff at Dalhousie's,' he said.

‘What do you mean?' I asked.

‘I'da thought you'd be going to one of the big shops in Launnie for that sort of thing, instead of a little shop like this one.'

I frowned at him. ‘Why would we do that?' I asked.

Doug rolled his eyes, as if he'd never met anyone as thick as me before. ‘Your dad gets a pension, mate. Because of the medal.'

‘Does he?'

‘Bobby says that it's a real good pension, too. That you can probably afford to have roast every day, and butter on your bread.'

‘Well, we don't,' I replied. ‘Anyway, how would your brother know that?'

‘Because he was in the army too, and so was my other brother, Jimmy. Your dad wasn't the only one fighting, you know.'

‘I know —'

‘Besides, you carry on like your dad was some kind of hero.'

This took me by total surprise. ‘I do not. Anyway, he
was
a hero,' I retorted.
‘And
he's got the medal to prove it.'

‘Billy-boy,' my father said from behind me.

‘Good afternoon, Mr McAuliffe,' Doug said, as polite as anything.

‘Afternoon, Doug,' Dad answered. ‘Come on, Billy, it's time to go.'

As we walked back to the truck, Dad said, ‘I don't like you talking about the medal. It just upsets people. Makes them cranky.'

‘But you deserve it, Dad.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘Because you told me what you did.'

‘Even so, I don't want people discussing it with you. All right, Billy-boy?'

‘Yes, Dad,' I agreed, even though I didn't understand why be was so reluctant. I knew that if
I'd
been a hero, I'd have wanted everyone to know it.

One evening a week or so after that a storm came up. The storms there could be wild, cold, a great reason to stay inside. And that's where Ma, Dad and me were that night, all sitting in front of the fire while the wind jostled our louse. My father was doing his usual after-dinner activity — reading and sorting his letters — and Ma was cuddling one of the twins, who had awoken and shuffled all bleary-eyed out of their room. I was playing on the rug with some of my toy soldiers. The sound of the heavy rain on the tin roof was so loud that we could barely hear each other speak, and this suited me fine, since I wanted to be able to bark orders at my little lead men without the embarrassment of my parents hearing it. Besides, the sudden sheets of lightning through the windows and the bursts of thunder made terrific artillery fire and bombs exploding in the distance.

Suddenly Dad looked up. It was an instinctive thing, going from deep in a letter to high alert in an instant. I think if there'd been a rifle at his side he'd have had it picked up and cocked in a moment. ‘Someone's at the door,' he said.

‘I didn't hear anything,' Ma replied.

Dad didn't answer her. Instead he simply stood up and walked through the kitchen to the back door.

From my position on the floor I could see the door clearly. I saw Dad swing it open, and Stan Whittaker standing there, wearing his heavy-weather cape and broad-brimmed hat. I couldn't hear what they were saying to each other, but I could see well enough that Stan was pretty upset about something.

‘Who is it?' asked Ma, who wasn't in a position to see the back door.

‘It's Stan,' I replied.

Ma pulled her dressing gown tighter about herself and hugged Meg closer. ‘What does he want?'

I shrugged.

‘I'm putting this one to bed, then I'm going myself,' Ma said, closing her book and standing up slowly, with Meg draped around her neck. ‘Night, Billy.'

‘Night, Ma,' I murmured, trying to hear what Stan and Dad were discussing. Dad had invited Stan in by this stage, and had closed the door against the rain and wind. I stood up and went into the kitchen. ‘Hi, Mr Whittaker,' I said, but he didn't even respond.

‘Well, Fred? Whatcha reckon?' Stan asked Dad.

Dad scratched his chin. ‘You reckon she's close?'

‘Too right, mate, yeah, real close,' Stan said.

‘Why didn't you keep her in?'

‘I meant to, but …' Stan made a kind of pathetic shrugging gesture. ‘Who'd have seen
this
coming, eh?'

I expected Dad to say something smart, but he didn't. ‘Aye, all right, Stan, give us a minute.' He turned and left the kitchen.

I followed him. Ma was already in bed, sitting up against pillows with her gown still on over her nightie. ‘What is it, Fred?' she asked as Dad took down a heavy sweater from the wardrobe.

‘Damn fool's gone and left out one of his cows,' he replied. ‘It's in one of the top paddocks.'

‘So what does that have to do with you?'

‘It's about to drop a calf,' Dad replied, pulling the sweater over his head and adjusting the position of his eye-patch. ‘In this,' he added, nodding his head at the rain driving against the window. ‘He'll never get her down to the shed now — she's too close.'

‘But Fred, what does it have to do with
you
?' ' Ma repeated. ‘It's
his
cow,
he
left it out when it should have been stabled. It's not your concern, Fred.'

‘I hear you, Alice. But he's a neighbour. It's what neighbours do.'

‘Even after —' Ma began.

‘Even after that, Alice. Come on, Billy-boy — what are you waiting for?'

Ma was horrified. ‘You're not taking him out in that, are you?'

Dad shrugged. ‘Why not? You told me he's big enough to run a dairy farm, didn't you? Alice, didn't you say that?'

I could feel my face beginning to knot into a frown. Why was he talking to my mother this way?

‘Sure, Fred, I just thought —'

Dad's voice was firm. ‘So he's coming with me. Come on, get your coat, Billy-boy.' He took a key from his bedside chest, and turned and strode from the room.

‘Take care, Billy,' I heard Ma say as I left the room.

In the hallway, Dad unlocked the gun cabinet and tool? out his rifle, quickly squinting along the barrel. Then he took a single bullet from a box of ammo and loaded the gun in a quick, polished motion. ‘Aye, ready to go,' he muttered.

Outside it was blowing and raining even harder than I'd realised, and the cold wind was like icy saplings thrashing at my exposed neck. I pulled my cap down hard over my ears, lowered my head and trotted across the muddy yard after Dad and Stan. Dad fumbled around on the cluttered bench in the shed until he'd found a couple of hurricane lanterns, which he quickly lit. The flames flickered and grew, making the shadows on our faces twist and shift. I caught Dad looking at me.

‘What is it?' I asked.

‘Are you up for this?' he asked.

Up for what? What was he going to do? ‘Sure,' I replied cautiously.

‘Good lad,' he said. ‘Here, you carry this.' He handed me a long knife, hard and heavy within its sheath.

‘What are you going to do with this?' I asked.

‘Hopefully nothing. Oh, wait there, Billy-boy.' He reached up to a hook on the wall behind the bench and took down a well-worn hat, one with a wide brim that went all the way around. He removed my cap, tossed it amongst the tools on the bench, and put the hat on my head. ‘Aye, it's a wee bit big, but it'll do. All right, Stan, lead on.'

So we went back out into that dreadful weather. I have to admit that it felt like quite an adventure, the three of us trudging through the mud and grass, our lanterns hissing and flickering. I didn't say anything, though — Dad wasn't looking too happy, and Stan just looked worried, even a little frightened.

After a lot of soggy walking and opening and closing gates that left our hands frozen, we finally reached the paddock. The cow was over on the far side, lying under a sprawling tree. Her belly was swollen, and as we walked up and the light from the lanterns splashed across her face, I saw her eye, huge and frightened, watching us approach.

Dad went straight to her head. He patted her, stroked her big velvety ears. ‘Are you all right there, lassie?' he said softly. ‘How are you doing there? We'll sort you out in no time at all. Billy-boy,' he said suddenly, and it took me a moment to realise that he was talking to me. ‘Billy-boy, come here.'

I went over and stood beside him.

‘Here, Billy-boy, take this.' He handed me the rifle.

‘What for?' I asked.

‘I'm not asking you to use it, laddie! I just want you to look after it. Keep the safety on. And talk to the cow while Stan and I see to her other end.'