Barbed Wire and Roses Page 4

  And what about the strike of hundreds of soldiers at Liverpool, who’d refused to drill because they said the camp was dusty and made them thirsty! Had they really walked out, got blind drunk and started fighting and looting all over the town? Was it really true? They’d read it in papers, but he and his mates couldn’t believe it. Imagine soldiers complaining that drilling made them thirsty! He’d like to see how thirsty they’d get in dusty Egypt. As for going on a rampage in which some civilians were apparently shot and wounded, what a pity these soldiers didn’t volunteer to fight overseas instead of starting their own private wars in Liverpool.

  He’d written to ask about this, but when the letters came back they were only about the latest cleverness of their baby son.

  Their promised leave came at last, and London was a revelation. When the suburbs first appeared outside the train window they thought they’d reached the heart of the city, but the streets, shops and rows of terraced houses went on for miles, until at last they arrived at Paddington Station. After that came the confusion of the underground tube system, as well as braving the new experience of the electric stairways that were called escalators. Then there were the huge crowds, pavements packed with people, the roads full of motorbuses and, astonishing to them, the realisation that most of the drivers and conductors on these vehicles were women.

  Stephen and Bluey went in search of a cheap place to stay. They asked Double-Trouble to join them, but he had a more urgent priority. The reason for army leave in his considered opinion was to latch onto a bit of crumpet, and he’d heard there was heaps of it, willing and available in Piccadilly, Soho or the Strand — in fact almost everywhere in London. He intended to shag himself stupid for the next ten days, and if he caught a dose of the clap, they’d have to send him to the infectious diseases hospital instead of France — which in his opinion might be a better option.

  ‘Hooroo,’ he said cheerfully, and walked directly towards a young woman nearby, doffed his slouch hat with a touch of flamboyance, leant down from his great height to admire her and asked politely whether a fuck was out of the question.

  ‘Struth! Mate, did yer hear that?’ Bluey asked.

  ‘Incredible! He only said it once.’

  ‘Once was enough! Look at ‘em! She’s took his arm and they’re off to the races!’

  ‘Sure you don’t want to try your own luck?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘My oath I will, but I want a feed and a few beers first. What about you? Mate, I know you’re happily married and all that, but it’s been a long time.’

  ‘It has,’ Stephen said, a touch thoughtful, ‘but I’ll be okay.’

  ‘You mean the straight and narrow? It’ll be ten days of hell,’ Bluey predicted.

  ‘It will. Don’t let that stop you.’

  ‘Not bloody likely. After we have a grog I’ll be off to check the talent. You write to the wife. Tell her you’re bein’ faithful, while us randy bastards are dippin’ our wicks all over town.’

  Going back to Salisbury in the train ten days later, Stephen tried not to listen as the others compared notes. Double-Trouble, as usual, had the floor. He declared English women were the goods, and for everyone’s benefit described his amorous adventures. He had a notebook with their names, addresses and the intimate details of what best aroused them. Of the eight names listed, he had promised to return and marry four.

  ‘When did you get time to eat?’ Stephen asked.

  Double-Trouble looked at him pityingly. There was always time to eat, he said. But a chance to bury the bishop in such willing and eager flesh was food and drink combined. Bliss like that would not come again until they returned from France. He’d promised his ladies he’d sort out the Huns and return to take up where he had left off. They awaited him with bated breath.

  Since he had so much to report in duplicate detail, the train was past Andover and Nether Wallop before Bluey had a chance to discuss his leave. Not that he appeared eager to do so.

  ‘Come on, Blue,’ the others encouraged, ‘how did you go?’

  Stephen could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, but the group, led by Double, were vociferous.

  ‘Had a beaut time,’ was all he offered. ‘Met this girl first night.’

  ‘Pretty?’ he was asked.

  ‘Sort of. Extra nice. Took me home to meet her family.’

  ‘Never mind the family. How many times did you do it?’ The others in the compartment all awaited this answer.

  ‘We didn’t,’ Bluey said, frowning and clearly disliking this interrogation, ‘just held hands mostly. Talked a lot about the future. You might have four wives lined up, Double, old mate-mate, but I’m cornin’ back here to marry just one. Then she’ll come home to Australia with me.’

  Double-Trouble roared with scornful laughter, and declared it was romantic bullshit. Fancy silly old Blue not cracking it. He’d drawn the short straw! Before they left for France his girl would be holding hands with some other poor deluded drongo. He must be a real dill to think otherwise. It was obvious he’d got himself landed with a prick teaser or a professional virgin.

  They had to carry Double off the train at Salisbury. If not, he would likely have remained unconscious until the terminus in Cornwall. Bluey couldn’t understand how the great Casanova had been so easy to knock out. Probably sexual exhaustion. It hadn’t been a hard punch at all. Just a little tap on the snout, to warn him not to talk that way about another bloke’s fiancée.

  The fight in the train took precedence over further reports of their leave, so Stephen had no trouble evading queries about his own time in London. In fact, he could truthfully say he had stuck to the straight and narrow. He had spent each day tramping the streets exploring London, trying to absorb himself in the historic past instead of the empty present.

  He had visited the Tower, fed pigeons in Trafalgar Square and marvelled at Elizabethan buildings that had been standing long before Australia became a colony. He walked past the newspaper offices that gave Fleet Street their fame, stood on Ludgate Hill and admired St Paul’s; he discovered Covent Garden and roamed along the river towpath from Chelsea to the Isle of Dogs. In the process he’d encountered many people, been complimented for being an Anzac, had his photograph taken and his hand shaken, but in reality had met no one for more than a few desultory minutes.

  It had been a time of strain. He was committed to Jane, but the solitary days took a toll; he had not envisaged the challenge of being isolated amid so much temptation, and slept badly in his tiny boarding-house room. Late at night, looking out at the clamorous streets, he began to envy his mates their cheerful wantonness. He had no problem ignoring the tarts with their overt invitations; more difficult were the fleeting glances of women who were clearly not prostitutes but just alone, perhaps as lonely as he was, their wistful looks seeming to offer an ephemeral interlude of warmth and love.

  Then, on that last day… why did it have to be the last?

  In Leicester Square he had seen a sight that made him stop. He was confronted by a billboard with the word sunlight emblazoned on it. Below was a picture of an Australian digger, looking so immaculate it was unreal. With this was a message:

  A BOX OF SUNLIGHT IN FRANCE IS

  WORTH TWO IN THE BUSH

  The Australian is no stranger to Sunlight. The tan on his cheek, the badge on his hat, his smart bearing and clean appearance, all proclaim SUNLIGHT. Clean fighters recommend SUNLIGHT!

  ‘Good God Almighty.’ Stephen gazed at it with disbelief. He had already seen a bizarre advertisement for a truck declaring it to be as strong as an Anzac. He felt an increasing unease at the rhapsody of praise in English newspapers, overblown prose making them out to be like Olympian warriors, but this stupid poster using them to sell soap angered him.

  ‘Disgraceful, isn’t it?’ a voice beside him had commented, and he’d turned to gaze into clear grey eyes and a young face framed by a coat collar and a cloche hat. She had smooth pale skin, traces of brown curly hair the hat did not entire
ly hide and a well-shaped nose with a tilt. An impish face, he thought, although the word endearing also came to mind. ‘I wouldn’t have spoken, but I could see you were upset. It’s quite wrong, don’t you think so?’

  ‘Yes,’ he’d said, ‘I do.’

  She had a soft voice to go with her looks, but being unfamiliar with English accents he could not tell if she was a Londoner. He tried to think of something to say, realising she had only paused to make a friendly comment and was about to move off.

  ‘Please,’ he’d said impulsively, ‘may I buy you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sergeant, but I have a train to catch.’

  Recalling the moment, he knew he must’ve looked downcast, for she’d suddenly smiled and said there was always another train. Endearing, he’d decided; that was the right word when she smiled. They had gone to che nearest Lyons Corner House and ordered tea and toast.

  Her name was Elizabeth Marsden, and she lived in a small village called Grantchester near Cambridge, where her father was a school teacher. She had been visiting an aunt in London, and had to catch the 2.15 fast train from Kings Cross, now that she’d missed the 1.15.

  ‘I’ll make sure you catch it,’ Stephen assured her. ‘We can get a tube, or walk there along Tottenham Court Road.’

  ‘Then you know London?’

  ‘Some of it.’ He told her about his leave and the days spent walking and discovering the city.

  ‘But I thought Australian soldiers —’

  ‘You thought we all got drunk and chased girls?’

  ‘Well…’ she seemed flustered for a moment, then laughed. It was an enchanting sound, and a man at a nearby table turned to look in envy. If Elizabeth noticed this she ignored him, her eyes remaining focused on Stephen. ‘I was obviously misinformed.’

  ‘Not totally misinformed,’ he grinned. ‘I think some of my best friends are probably doing that right now.’ It was then he told her he was married, and had a son almost a year old whom he had never seen.

  ‘But you’re about the same age as me,’ she said, astonished. ‘My parents are always saying I’m far too young to marry.’

  ‘So was I,’ Stephen replied. ‘Ridiculously young. But the war made us impulsive. It also made me leave university, and rush to join up.’

  ‘University?’ She was surprised again, but he’d encountered this before. In the British army few university students were to be found in the ranks; most of them were at least subalterns.

  ‘What did you read at university? Or do you say study?’

  ‘Law,’ he’d said, ‘I was reading law.’

  A pert young waitress brought their tea, and with it a large plate of toast with an assortment of jams. Elizabeth looked surprised. ‘My goodness, we are being spoiled.’

  ‘Nothing’s too good for our Anzacs. Got to keep their strength up, so they can win the war,’ the waitress said with a glance at Stephen, a plainly flirtatious appraisal, then with a cheeky grin had patted the three stripes on his sleeve before hurrying off to another customer.

  ‘No wonder the poor English lads are jealous!’ Elizabeth Marsden observed. ‘Extra toast, a choice of jams and an overture as well, unless my eyes deceived me. Which they didn’t,’ she added with another smile.

  ‘It’s my exalted rank of sergeant.’ Stephen was embarrassed.

  ‘Does that kind of thing happen often?’

  ‘Not to me.’ He occupied himself selecting which jam to spread on his toast. After a moment he asked, ‘Are the English Tommies really jealous of us?’

  ‘They say you’re better paid, and you get all the glory.’

  ‘Such as being made to look like idiots on an advertisement to sell soap. Well, they’re welcome to it.’

  ‘I doubt if they’d be jealous of that.’ Elizabeth sipped her tea before continuing. ‘But yes, there’s envy. It’s a shame, though understandable. I’ve heard them complain they were at Gallipoli too, but these days people only talk about what the Anzacs did.’

  ‘None of us should’ve been there,’ Stephen replied, but not wanting to discuss the war he changed subjects and told her about his friends, including a sanitised account of Double-Trouble which had her amused.

  ‘A real Lothario, is he?’

  ‘He likes to think so.’

  ‘Poor thing! He sounds rather insecure. Perhaps that’s why he says things twice, so someone will take notice.’

  He nodded, impressed by her insight. ‘I never thought of it like that,’ he said.

  ‘And now you, Stephen.’ She’d smiled. ‘Tell me about you.’

  ‘Not much to tell.’ He had felt strangely inarticulate, possessed by a sudden shyness. In his own opinion his life had been quite ordinary: whatever he might say would hardly be of interest, and could well disappoint her.

  ‘Apart from being married, and dropping law to enlist, there must be more to tell. Will you go back to it? The law?’

  ‘I hope so,’ he replied.

  ‘Of course you will.’

  ‘If all goes well. You know…’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘I worry about that. The future… and what might happen.’

  ‘I’m sure everyone does. It must be frightening.’

  ‘It is. But we keep reading these silly stories about what great fighters we are, and how fearless. It’s not true, Elizabeth. Anyone who says they aren’t afraid is lying.’

  He was lifting his teacup when his hand began to tremble. He hardly managed to replace it on the saucer. Her hand had reached to cover his.

  ‘Tell me where you live, and all about your family.’

  He felt the warmth of her touch, looked into her grey eyes and wished this was not the last day. He no longer felt shy.

  ‘My family goes a long way back,’ he began, ‘to when Sydney and Hobart were penal colonies. My great-grandfather was a convict.’

  ‘From England?’

  ‘From Ireland. An Irish rebel from Tipperary.’

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘He was a bit of a firebrand, I think. An agitator. When he was seventeen he was sentenced to death for speaking against the red-coat occupation, but they sent him to Botany Bay instead. His name was Jeremy Conway, and seven years later he got his ticket-of-leave — a sort of pardon, but not a real one. More like a parole. He started a printery and married my great-grandmother. She was a convict too. Most people at home don’t like to admit to skeletons like that in their closet. But I’m proud of being descended from them.’

  ‘What was your great-grandmother’s name?’

  ‘Bess. They had a son named Matthew, and adopted an orphan boy called Daniel.’

  He’d told her how the two boys grew up together, his grandfather Matthew to become a journalist and run a tiny news sheet that became an influence in the colony, and how Daniel owned square-rigged ships by the age of eighteen. Both of them successful so young, both proud to be known as Currency Lads and embroiled in the near revolt when England sent out more convicts against popular opinion. While he was telling her, Stephen realised he had never before spoken of this to anyone. She was an avid listener, asking why they were called Currency Lads.

  ‘It was a name they adopted. It meant first-generation Australians. They made their presence felt at a time when local society only approved of free settlers. They helped to change all that. I’ve read Matthew’s editorials and seen pictures of the ships Daniel owned. They must have been great days, exciting times.’

  He had barely been aware that the afternoon was half gone and Elizabeth Marsden had missed two more trains. He suggested they find a motor cab, but she preferred they walk together to Kings Cross. She took his arm as they reached Charlotte Street, and their progress slowed as they walked companionably in step. It was because neither of them had wanted to hurry that she was only just in time to catch the 4.15.

  He helped her find a seat, and she had impulsively put her arms around him and kissed him goodbye. Train doors were slamming prior to departure. He
wanted to tell her how wonderful the past few hours had been.

  ‘I wish we’d met sooner,’ was all he’d had time to say before an English soldier deliberately jostled them, barging into Stephen with his kitbag while looking for a seat.

  ‘Bloody colonials,’ he’d snapped in their faces, ‘all yer do is pinch our girls. I’m sick of the sight of those stupid slouch hats.’

  Stephen had been bracing himself to ask for Elizabeth’s address so he could write to her, but the Tommy continued his tirade, and he’d taken her into the next carriage away from the abuse. By then the station guard’s whistle had shrilled, and there was no time. The train had already begun to shuffle forward as he jumped off.

  ‘Want to get yourself killed?’ the guard berated him, and Stephen yelled at him to shut up. Too late he turned back to the train, only managing to catch a last glimpse of her face through the smeared window, her hand waving, then the train — and she — were gone.

  FIVE

  It was midsummer in France, but they shivered despite the heat, for the night was rabid with the sound of gunfire. Tracer bullets made cross-stitch patterns in the dark. A blinding flare lit the desolation of no-mans-land beyond the barbed wire where the dead lay in hideous disarray. Mutilated bodies that weeks earlier had been dismembered by shellfire were strewn like wreckage beyond hope of retrieval, many of them eaten by marauding rats. This was a different kind of war to the Dardanelles — infinitely worse — for the Western Front was a sickening slaughterhouse.

  Stephen knew they were changed out of all recognition, himself included, perhaps himself most of all. They were now insensitive to such sights — secretly relieved that the bodies scattered out there were those of others. The tight-knit mateship forged at Gallipoli had been left behind there; thoughts had turned to a longing for home and survival at any cost. Tomorrow would be an anniversary, a gruesome one that no one wished to celebrate; they were about to enter the third year of the war.