Читать книгу As Hammers Fall - Mark Svendsen - Страница 7

Hush! Here Comes A Whizz Bang Hush! here comes a whizz bang, Hush! here comes a whizz bang, Now you soldiers get down those stairs, Down in your dug-outs and say your prayers. Hush! here comes a whizz bang, And it’s making straight for you And you’ll see all the wonders of no man’s land If a whizz bang [bump] hits you. To the tune of ‘Hush! Here Comes The Dream Man’.

Joe rested his head against the wooden window frame of the tram and gazed west to Mt Cootha. A fingernail of crescent moon hung just clear of the mountain, shrouded now and again by the bloated summer clouds that drifted, hushed along by the failed breeze. The last remnants of daylight dropped from its purple-dark bulk.

Joe knew how it felt.

He was dog-tired too from the afternoon’s shenanigans and so was Molly. Her attraction to violence and therefore Mick always wore her down. The way she insisted on staying with him even though things looked like turning nasty.

Or was it that she was loyal to her friends above all things? He liked that idea better. Even if he and Molly would never be more than friends, to have such a friend was armour against a million woes.

Or perhaps she confused love with compassion? Maybe that’s why she’d been so vociferous when he suggested they leave.

Or perhaps he was grasping at straws to explain why she chose Mick instead of him. There was so much he still could not understand about people, about men and women. Ideas were so much easier, neater, manageable. But … how she’d stood up for him when he vacillated in his speech. He leaned in pleasant reverie.

A lamplighter trudged from post to post lighting the gas-lights across the bridge. The khaki river reflected the yellow glow of the lamps, like brass buttons decorating a uniform.

Ships moored at the wharves along the southern bank hoisted their riding lights. Under the lights a river of wheat flowed on the backs of wharfies, up gangplanks, or into slings to be swung aboard. Grain and bully beef and all the foodstuff the country could produce to feed the war’s hungry mouth.

From the back seat of the tram, Joe smiled at the bitter irony. He knew so many of the wharfies, Mick’s old man to begin with, who were utterly opposed to the war, yet on their backs they carried the food so necessary to keep soldiers alive long enough to kill or be killed for King and Country.

His thoughts drifted to more recent events.

If Hughes sent the army in against Queensland anything could happen, maybe even the break-up of the Commonwealth, or a civil war. Joe shuddered at the thought. As if the current war wasn’t bad enough without another one erupting at home. It could happen. Look at America. Only 50 years since they’d been trying to kill each other. He felt sick at the prospect. However bad this war was, it could be far worse.

Kathleen always told him to redirect his imagination when it took a turn too far into the woes of the world, so he wondered instead what Ted Hill would have to say, when he heard what had just happened at the printing works? Maybe Joe could be the bearer of new intelligence for once. Ted’s network of informants was renowned as the best in Brisbane. Maybe this time Joe would have a scoop.

But more importantly, what did Ted think about his speech? Not that Ted and Kathleen and Uncle Bill didn’t know the content.

They were all up late, night after long night, tossing lines back and forward as Joe scribbled down and crossed out and drew lines from one point to the next – but what about his delivery? He knew it was a bit messy at the end. Did he hit the mark with the Movement? Whether he had or not, he knew from the reaction that he’d sure stirred the possum. Maybe he’d even read about it in the morning paper? That felt good. He looked around for Molly.

She and Mick sat three seats in front of him, billing and cooing like Trades Hall pigeons. He felt sick with hunger. It was strange how, even when the worst things seemed to be happening, when everything stood on the brink, it sometimes seemed that no one cared. Real life seemed to go on unaltered. Workers went to work, housewives paid the grocer and lovers kissed, oblivious.

Molly laughed,

‘No!’

Mick turned to him,

‘If you had the choice between being in the Army or the Navy, which would you take?’ he asked. Molly rolled her eyes.

Joe tried to ignore him, but it was no good.

‘Neither,’ he answered, hoping to shut him up. ‘You wouldn’t catch me dead in any Imperial Forces.’ Joe smiled. Mick and Molly laughed.

‘Caught dead!’ Mick chuckled, shaking his head. Joe laughed too, though the joke was unintended.

He don’t know if he could be so cruel as to damn soldiers outright, even in jest, with so many dying. He wasn’t joking when he’d said his friends were dead. There were a half dozen, some not close, but close enough to have been the furniture of his social day: school and workmates, a bloke from three streets over and the shop boy from the other butcher. The one his mother went to sometimes whose name he always forgot. Weren’t they just ignorant slaves, fighting because they didn’t know any better? Like Ted always said,

“It’s only when a bloke has all the facts that he can make an informed decision.” To which he always added.

“And I mean real facts! Not the propaganda the Tory Press and the Government hand out.”

Joe had drifted again.

‘But what if the Conscription Referendum gets a “Yes” this time?’ Mick pressed. ‘Then there’ll be no choice. You’ll have to join up.’

He’s more persistent than a bloody March fly, Joe thought and resigned himself to answering, or at least making some comment.

‘We’ll beat Hughes again and that’s it. No Conscription. Never, ever!’ Joe tried to make his voice sound final. His heart was not so sure, even after today. It seemed the whole world teetered … in everything. Besides, he knew Mick’ was just ‘taking the Mick’. Molly and he began to whisper to one other. Tomfool was babbling to himself too, so it was hard to hear.

‘Segeyev disagrees,’ Molly turned to say. ‘He reckons Hughes is mad with power and he’ll do anything to make Australians fight.’

‘Look, Moll,’ Joe answered. ‘You know my opinion of Segeyev but he’s not always right you know. No one is.’

‘But he says if Hughes doesn’t win the Referendum then he’ll legislate before the year is out.’

‘Blow it all, Molly,’ Joe exploded. ‘We haven’t got Conscription yet and it won’t happen. Australians have more sense, whatever Segeyev says.’

Molly fell silent before Mick weighed back in.

‘For the sake of the argument just imagine you’re in a time and a place where there is no choice. You have to choose!’

‘I’d take the bloody Army then!’ Joe said, his voice tight. ‘Because,’ he added knowing Mick well enough to know there would be a supplementary question about why he’d answered the way he’d answered.

‘Because, I’m frightened of being caught underwater in a ship and then slowly drowning.’ Mick was silent for a moment, contemplating the answer.

‘And you know I get bloody sea-sick!’

That finished Mick off. Molly laughed and Tomas parroted to the whole tram-load.

‘Would you be an infantryman or a gunner?’ Mick asked.

‘I’ll knock your bloody block off, Mick!’ Joe exploded. ‘See that!’ He pushed back his hair from the wound on his forehead.

‘That’s as close as I’ll get to warfare. Class warfare,’ Joe said. ‘And I’ll do my fighting here at home. I’ll fight to get the war ended and for decent wages and fair conditions for workers. This is the real war!’

They both fell silent. Joe knew he’d raised his voice, but Molly’s eyes smiled. She loved his passion. But she was the real warrior. Mick had no chance.

‘You know, Comrade,’ Mick said quietly, emphasising the word comrade unnecessarily. ‘For all your brains you’re boring. At least with me it’s a different answer every time. With you, all the answers end up the same.’ He laughed aloud, in Joe’s face. Molly joined with him. Her laughter stung like a slap.

Why do they do that? Aren’t we all in the Peace Army? Don’t we all agree on Socialist principles? So why? Joe smiled weakly back at them, trying not to let his feelings crawl across his face. He was tired and today was his big day and no one would ruin that for him.

Tomfool changed seats so he could pat Molly’s hair, as though she were a dog.

‘Besides,’ Molly continued. ‘It’s all fine to be having the answer “in theory” but like your mother says we’re needing practical solutions to people’s problems not just high falutin’ talk.’

She was right of course, but the criticism still hurt.

Joe tried not to let it show but it must have, because she added,

‘Not that we don’t need the speechifying too.’ Joe bit his lip.

‘Well,’ he concluded quietly. ‘Maybe that’s just the difference between you two and me, you’re frightened of ideas. Frightened they might be real and they’ll hurt you somehow.’ Joe wanted it to be spiteful, but Mick just shrugged his shoulders.

‘What? More real than my old man?’

Joe retreated, returning to his own thoughts.

Perhaps that’s the truth, ideas don’t hurt, not like a thump in the head. Or, at least, no one thinks that’s it’s the idea that’s hurting them when someone is thumping them in the head. But isn’t it the idea of love that made Mick’s old man the way he is. After his Mum got the typhoid and died the real world changed but the idea of love stayed the same … it’s just he couldn’t work out how to deal with the real world not matching the world in his head anymore … just like me and Molly.

Or Babushka? Her idea that no one could be as perfect a man as her husband was when he was leading strikes in Russia. The scorn she pours on Old Nik if he so much as opens his mouth about Socialism. No one could live up to her idea of perfection.

Joe thought hard, staring at his friends. Mick and Molly were quiet. What’s the idea behind us all?

No more unanswereable questions, Joe, he agreed with himself. The tram clattered on in silent contemplation.

Only Tomfool was bored and started his games again, sticking his head out through the window and squealing in the ear of the person sitting in front.

Joe ignored him.

The tram lumbered off the bridge. The winning shouts from the men playing two-up behind the Terminus Hotel could be heard clearly above its clatter.

‘Come in spinner!’ a voice called in Irish brogue. Cockatoos were on lookout at both entrances to Fish Lane. To be sure! To be sure!

Tomas had stopped frightening people and sat chatting to himself and gesticulating with a shake of his index finger.

‘The Doctor’s going away! It’s not right! It’s not right! We need him to look after us!’ Tomas turned towards the other passengers,

‘You like my story?’ A young rowdy told him to pull his head in. Two girls whispered and turned away. The drunks ignored him. Most of them knew him, at least by sight, from around the streets. A child stared hard at him until Tom rolled his eyes back to show the whites. The child began to cry.

Joe glanced up to find Molly also looking at Tomfool.

‘Tomas,’ she admonished, shaking her head gently and smiling at the kid’s mother. She has a smile for every occasion, Joe thought, but always the second best for me.

‘My stop,’ Mick called. He jumped down from the seat to the running board to trot beside the slowing tram.

‘I thought you were coming to the meeting?’ Joe protested. Mick shook his head. ‘Better make sure the old man makes it to bed,’ he said, his voice dispirited, ‘or he won’t be able to work in the morning.’ He turned to Molly.

‘But I’ll be seeing you at Babushka’s after work tomorrow won’t I, Molly dolly?’ he asked.

‘Right you are then,’ she answered, waving. ‘We’ll be expecting you for tea. And be behaving yourself when O’Hagen’s at the table. There’s the warning!’

‘You behave yourself when you’re anywhere near that Winterson nark,’ he advised, ‘and that’ll be an order!’

Molly pouted as she waved her red handkerchief, like a damsel from an old fairytale. For a moment she seemed infinitely high and infinitely sad as though she knew the woes of the whole world in that moment. Mick stared hard at her before shifting his gaze to Joe. His face swung shut.

Joe had seen that gate close a thousand times.

‘Come to the meeting!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll wait for you!’

‘Maybe, all right,’ Mick replied and Joe smiled. In spite of all, they were mates.

Mick stood on the corner watching the tram clatter up to the Merivale Street stop where the three of them jumped down. He waved one last time before turning to walk back to the room he shared with his father above the Anchor Inn.

Mick knew it’d be unlikely he’d get to the meeting. The Peace Army sandwiches at lunchtime were good but that was all he’d eaten all day. He knew better than to try and keep his earnings back from his father on a Friday, even if it was only so he could buy something for weekend night’s dinners, and he would never ask for charity. But he also knew he wouldn’t be able to work a full day without a feed and he’d never hear the end of it if he ran out of steam.

I’ll ask for some washing up work then, maybe the meeting, he thought. Old Montague Miller’s worth an hour of anybody’s time.

Mick sauntered up to the back of the Plough Inn. He loitered there for a few minutes, kicking at rubbish bins and poking aimlessly at anything of interest. It seemed less like he was expecting a handout if he didn’t knock. Finally the back door opened and a small bird-sized woman in a starched white apron appeared, an enamel bowl full of potato peelings on her hip.

‘Top of the evening to you, Mrs McGinty,’ he said to the cook as he pulled the lid off the bin nearest to the back of the pub door. ‘Those tired old hands of yours could do with not being up to the elbows in soapy water this fine evening,’ he charmed. She knew him well.

‘A full hour’s work or there’ll be nothing for ye!’ she growled. But she took his arm as she turned and walked Mick Doyle into the kitchen.