Women and War (12 page)

For the first time in her life Alys found herself looking forward to each day as a challenge. The pain of Race's death and the loss of her baby were still there but she no longer had so much time to think about them. And as her new life helped to mend her broken heart and set her new goals, Alys found that she was falling in love with this strange wild frontier town. She loved the feeling of space and lack of convention, loved having the sea spread out at her front door and the wild wide desert of outback at the rear. She loved the sneaky treacherous way that golden sand turned to muddy mangrove flats, loved the smell of the pure salt air that sometimes carried on it a sharp whiff from the iron ore loading jetty or the bitumen plant, loved the rioting tropical greenery and the huge spreading banyan trees. She loved it so much she felt she never wanted to leave it – even when the war that Sylvia had predicted had become reality and letters began to arrive from Frances urging her to come home.

‘My dear Alys, I am so worried about you,' Frances wrote. ‘ I cannot sleep for worrying and your father is afraid I shall make myself ill. Sylvia means well I know, keeping you occupied, but she doesn't understand you are not used to that sort of thing. She is hardy – she always was – while you … Please Alys, do as your mother asks and come home immediately.'

Alys had tucked the letter away in her handkerchief drawer with a wry smile: It was not Sylvia who failed to understand her, she thought. The Red Cross was busier than ever and she was enjoying the sense of urgent purpose which filled her days. Besides the war seemed so far away, in France and Belgium, Syria and Egypt. What on earth was there for her mother to worry about? But then Frances would always worry – and advertise the fact if she thought it would help her to get her own way.

As the months passed the letters from home became more urgent and in spite of herself Alys was forced to admit that perhaps there was after all something in what Frances had to say. The war that had seemed so distant was creeping inexorably closer and daily it seemed the news grew ever more grave. Half of the cream of Australia's troops in Crete had been safely evacuated after fighting a brave but losing battle – what had become of the other half? HMAS
Sydney
, pride of the Australian fleet, was sunk and all aboard her lost – all those gallant young men who had so recently marched with pride in their tropical white uniforms through the streets of the city for which their ship had been named. And then Japan was involved and the world rocked to the news that her planes had decimated the US fleet in Pearl Harbor and attacked Hong Kong, Singapore and the Philippines. When that happened a telegram had been delivered to the clifftop house in Darwin:
Come home at once stop Frantic with worry stop Mother.

Again Alys had smiled, perhaps more because for the first time in her life she was beyond the reach of her mother's jurisdiction rather than from amusement. But six days later she had stopped smiling.

She had been in the cinema that evening, Tom Harris's Star Theatre, known locally as Tomaris's Place, watching a gangster film, when the air raid siren had begun to wail, louder even than the gunfire and sounds of a car chase on screen. She had scrambled out into the hot dark night almost unable to believe the impossible was happening yet swept along by the panicking crowds who had appeared on the streets – the entire audience of the cinema, swarms of Chinese from the gambling dens and dives of Cavenagh Street, families who had fled from their homes – all making for the only place that might be safe from the threat of Japanese bombs, the beach beneath the protective shelter of the high cliffs. With them she had spent an uncomfortable couple of hours plagued by the mosquitos and sandflies who hovered in constantly moving clouds above the warm sand until it became clear that no Japanese planes would come tonight. But with the relief had come a new and frightening realization – tonight the siren had sounded a false alarm. Next time it might not. Next time it could be for real.

Alys was not the only one to see that what had seemed like an empty threat could be on the point of becoming reality. Next day the evacuations began, evacuations that had been planned for many months by the administration and zone wardens for just such an eventuality. Women and children were ordered out of Darwin, leaving by road and by sea, some unwillingly, some only too anxious to escape the vulnerable north coast.

But Alys had resisted. For one thing she was needed here – and was not Aunt Sylvia too insisting that she remain for exactly the same reasons? For another she was unwilling to leave the scene of action. Afraid and uncomfortable as she might have been that night on the dark beach, she had also felt strangely alive, the vibrancy of fear awakening in her new and exciting sensations. Never before had she been on a knife edge of danger; it was an exhilarating experience. To leave now and run for the safety and claustrophobic boredom of home was not what Alys wanted.

During the weeks that followed that first air raid warning Darwin took on the appearance of a town under siege. Barbed wire entanglements appeared on the beach, concrete machine gun emplacements were built and armed, the streets, almost cleared now of civilians, thronged with soldiers. Fresh food and liquor were in short supply; petrol became as valuable as liquid gold. And the letters from Melbourne became more frequent and more insistent than before, in spite of the fact that Alys had written home stating that she had every intention of remaining until she was forcibly carried out.

This morning as she crossed to the breakfast table where the Crawfords were already seated she saw there was another one – but this time it had been addressed not to her but to Uncle James. The pages covered with her mother's unmistakable hand were spread out across this morning paper and as Alys approached he riffled them together and looked up at her over the rim of his gold-framed spectacles.

‘Morning, Alys. Your mother has been writing to me again. She is very concerned about you, you know.' Alys helped herself to a piece of toast.

‘I wish she would stop worrying. I have explained to her that I am needed here. But Mummy can be extremely obtuse when she chooses.'

James Crawford hid a wry smile. He had spent his life, he thought, wrestling with deliberately obtuse women. At the Darwin branch of the United Bank of Australia where he was manager he was thought of by his clients and staff alike as a man to be reckoned with but in his own home …

‘I happen to think she is right.' James settled himself back in his chair, dabbing at his military-style moustache with a damask napkin. ‘Darwin is no place for women just now.'

‘Oh do stop nagging, James!' Sylvia Crawford said with a touch of impatience. She was a daunting woman in her own right, features sharp and clear in a face still smooth in spite of having survived almost fifty Australian summers, pepper and salt hair curling irrepressibly from the kirby grips which attempted to tame it. ‘Alys is needed. She is the only girl here who can drive the Red Cross ambulance – and she is a great help with the police canteen too. If she went I don't know how I should manage.'

James Crawford sighed and poured himself more coffee.

‘Alys'mother and I are not alone in thinking Darwin is a dangerous place to be,' he said testily. ‘The administration have deemed it sensible to evacuate women and children. It's almost two months now since the order and most people have had the sense to obey it.'

Sylvia snorted, an explosion which somehow still managed to sound ladylike. ‘ What order? Oh, they've tried to get us out, but you know as well as I do they have no real power. Just let one of those jumped-up wardens try to force
me
to evacuate. I'd soon send him packing!'

‘And no doubt you have already done just that,' James said drily. ‘I know you are an impossible woman, Sylvia. I've learned that to my cost in the thirty years since I married you. But, because you are determined to stay here and get yourself killed, it's no reason to encourage Alys to do the same. We have been lucky so far. But it can't last. I think Alys should go immediately.'

‘Just because of my mother's letter, I suppose,' Alys said biting into her toast.

‘No. Not just because of that.' He moved the letter aside and tapped the newspaper. ‘Singapore has fallen now. Singapore – the one place everyone thought was impregnable. Now it will be only a matter of time before Australia is attacked – and Darwin is right in the front line.'

‘Fiddlesticks,' Sylvia said briskly.

‘Have you taken a look at the harbour this morning?' James demanded, waving at the panoramic view laid out beneath them. ‘Can't you see all those ships?'

‘The harbour is always full of ships. That's what it's for.'

Not like that. There must be close on forty of them – corvettes, sloops, tankers, a minesweeper. There's even a hospital ship. Look, you can see its red cross.'

‘Which reminds me that I have work to do.' Sylvia stood up smoothing her uniform skirt which had wriggled into a web of horizontal creases across the widest part of her plump thighs. ‘We have a consignment of comforts to get to that ship, Alys.'

James brought his fist down sharply onto the table making the china rattle.

‘Will you listen to what I am saying, woman! Amongst those ships is a convoy of transports. It was on its way to reinforce Timor but the Jap bombers drove it back. It came running back here for safety. I heard about it at the Club Hotel last night. Now look, if the Japs have followed it in they might have another crack at it here in Darwin. If they can do it in Pearl Harbor, they can do it here.'

‘Sometimes, James, you sound exactly like an old woman,' Sylvia said calmly. ‘Are you ready, Alys? Let's get your ambulance on the road.'

‘Yes, I'm ready.' Alys stood up too, pausing to drop a kiss on James' sandy head. ‘Don't worry, Uncle. We'll be all right. And you are still here, after all, aren't you?'

James watched them go and sighed. He had done what he could. Short of ordering the army to cart them away there was no more he could do. Well, very likely they would be safe enough. Pity the Jap who thought he could take on the pair of them!

With a small shake of his head he returned to his paper. At the top in black ink the date stood out clearly.

February 18th, 1942.

The kitchen of the Savalis' Darwin boarding house was stiflingly hot in spite of the lateness of the hour and the large twirling ceiling fan. The heat emanated in waves from the big old range and to a lesser degree from the central lamp, bounced off the shutters, firmly closed to enforce the blackout, and wafted in to join that central pool of suffocating air which moved slowly up, stratum by stratum, to be dispersed temporarily by the fan and begin the same inevitable round again.

At the range Tara Kelly was stiring gravy in a large cast iron frying pan. Perspiration was trickling in small steady rivulets down her neck and her hair, usually a mass of tight springy curls, felt damp against her hot face. Irritably she raised a hand to brush it away and the pan, no longer steadied against the violent rotations of her wooden spoon, slopped thick floury-looking liquid onto the range where it spat and bubbled for a moment before congealing into an evil-looking crust.

‘Damn,' said Tara.

The kitchen door opened and Dimitri Savalis' face appeared. It was not an attractive face – a fondness for the bottle had made it too florid and paunchy – and now it glistened with sweat. His lips were large and loose, his eyes too small behind the folds of flesh, his hair hung in a greasy lock across his forehead.

Tara tightened her own lips in disgust and turned away.

‘Is it ready yet?' Dimitri asked, his tone betraying impatience. ‘The guests are all waiting. They finished their soup long ago.'

‘Give them a drink to fill in time then,' Tara snapped.

‘A drink? You know drink is in very short supply in this town right now.'

‘Oh, come on, Dimitri – I know you've got enough in your cellar to float a battleship! It might help to keep them from noticing how few vegetables there are anyway. They're in short supply too in case you hadn't noticed.'

Ignoring her, he continued, ‘Just be as quick as you can. I have a reputation to keep up, you know. Savalis' is one of the best rooming houses in Darwin and gives a good value for money evening meal too. Don't you know the Captain of the
Fortuna
and two of his officers are eating here tonight? Oh, when my Tina was here to run the kitchen things were different! My Tina is a wonderful cook. My Tina …'

‘Well, she isn't here now,' Tara retorted. ‘I'm doing my best and you're just holding me up. It's ready now anyway.' As she lifted the pan from the range her thumb slipped onto the hot rim and she swore. ‘Ouch!'

‘Don't drop it! Don't drop it!' Dimitri's body followed his head into the kitchen – a body as paunchy and unattractive as his face. When Tara had first fled to Darwin and taken a job as maid of all work in the Savalis' boarding house she had marvelled that a girl as nice as Tina could not only have married Dimitri but had four babies by him; now that she and the children had been evacuated south, Tara could only think it must be a great relief to her to be able to go to bed and not have to face the prospect of that disgusting lump of lard climbing in beside her and crawling all over her.

Yet Tina had protested vehemently when the authorities had ordered her to leave. It had been in December, immediately after the first air raid warning, and Tina had pleaded with their zone warden to be allowed to remain at least until after Christmas. Without success. The warden was adamant – Darwin was not safe for women and children and Tina, likely to give birth at any moment, was one of the first who must go. She and the children had been loaded onto a coastal trader and shipped south out of the danger zone and Tara had been left to carry out Tina's jobs as well as her own at the boarding house – and to take the brunt of Dimitri's bad temper and constant complaints.