My Father's War Read online

  She went on. ‘May saw me waiting and asked me why I was there. I explained and then asked if she might have seen Harry around and showed her the photo I brought with me. I didn’t really expect her to, it was just a chance—but God be thanked, she had seen him, a few weeks ago! She remembered, she said, because he was sitting cooling his heels outside an office and he was sketching people passing by. Wonderful things, she said. So quick and lively. She said so to him and he smiled and did a quick cartoon of her on the spot. Well, that was the first hard evidence I’d had of Harry being there.

  ‘As you can imagine I plied her with questions. She said she hadn’t seen him since that day. She’d been sent to Flanders a day or two later and had only just returned to the Somme. But she gave me the name of an officer who she said might be able to tell me more. Well, I found him, but he denied all knowledge of Harry anywhere near Bertangles. When I told him what May had said, and showed him Harry’s photo, he said reluctantly that he did remember. Private Cliff had been transferred to signals but was no longer there. When I asked where he’d gone, he said brusquely he was not at liberty to say. I asked if he might at least indicate whether he’d gone back to his old battalion, but he said I’d have to find out from someone higher up. When I asked who I should ask, he told me it was unlikely anyone would be able to see me that day. When I said I’d come back, he said it might not be worth my while. I asked him what he meant. He wouldn’t answer. Just told me he was busy and that he had no more time for me. I had the strong impression that he was hiding something from me. That something’s very wrong, and he didn’t want to tell me.’

  ‘But what?’ said Madame Baudin. ‘Your husband—forgive me—he’s not lost in battle, or injured, or in hospital, or missing in action, or taken prisoner, or anything of the sort. They would have told you for sure if any of those things had happened.’

  ‘I know. But something is wrong,’ said Mum stubbornly. ‘I can feel it, right here!’ She tapped her chest. ‘And I won’t give up! If they won’t tell me, I’ll find out myself.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘Well, I saw May Pryce again when I came out of that man’s office. She saw how upset I was. She said her own man was fighting in the Middle East and that she’d feel exactly the same, if she hadn’t heard from him. So she said she’d ask around. Find out who Harry had been in contact with. Find someone who might be able to shed more light on the whole thing.’

  Madame Baudin said, ‘Then that’s a start.’

  ‘A start, yes—but I hope it won’t take too long. Because May also told me—’ She broke off abruptly.

  Madame Baudin looked at her. At me and Paul. She said quietly, ‘Paul and Annie, would you mind please taking the plates back to the kitchen and asking Julie if dessert is ready?’

  Paul got up at once and began stacking plates, but I didn’t want to go. I knew exactly what they were doing. There was some secret they didn’t want us to know about. But I wasn’t going to be fobbed off so easily! I said, ‘What did May say, Mum?’

  Her eyes shifted away from mine. ‘Nothing of importance.’ I must have looked stubborn, because she said sharply, ‘Please do as you’re asked, Annie, and help Paul.’

  ‘But I don’t want—’ I began, but Mum glared at me.

  ‘No ifs or buts. Just do it!’

  It’s just not fair. I need to know! I clattered plates together and set off after Paul, seething with anger. Outside the door I stopped to listen. But they were talking too quietly. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  ‘Don’t you know it’s naughty to listen at keyholes?’ a voice said in my ear. I gave a little cry and nearly dropped the plates. I glared at the person who’d startled me—Paul, coming back soundlessly with the apple pie.

  ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ I hissed.

  He shrugged. ‘You scare easily then. Well?’

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Did you hear what they said?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Easy to guess though,’ he said, in a superior kind of way. Really annoying!

  I said, ‘Oh really?’

  ‘Think about it. Your mother, she was at Bertangles. Army headquarters. That’s where you’d hear news about the war, right? This nurse person, she probably said the war was going to heat up again. That’s all.’

  I stared at him. ‘That’s all?’

  ‘Everyone knows that anyway,’ he said. ‘So it’s hardly news. Hardly worth listening at keyholes for, I’d say.’ Then he pushed the door back into the dining room. I stood there for an instant, seething. Who did he think he was! He’d acted like he was so much older than me, so much more clever. What a dumb, annoying, painful, superior, boiled owl of a person! I can’t stand him.

  He didn’t speak to me the rest of the evening, which suited me just fine. I don’t care if he never speaks to me again. Now I sit here writing this and thinking over what Mum had said at dinner, to work out in my own mind what could be going on with Dad.

  We knew something was up already, of course, because of Dad not writing for months. But we’d expected to find out when we got to France. Mum had not expected the run-around she was given at Bertangles. She is clearly very worried now, and that scares me. Because I’m sure Mum’s right and something is very wrong. But what?

  Like Madame Baudin said, Dad’s not dead or injured or captured. They’d tell us if that was the case. So what could be so wrong that it makes those people at Bertangles tell lies—or at least not the truth? Could it be that Dad’s done something wrong? And that they don’t want to tell her because it’s too awful, too shameful?

  But what could Dad have done wrong? I remember a boy in my class last year, his dad got caught burgling a house and was sent to prison, and he was so ashamed of it that he pretended his dad had been eaten by a shark in Sydney Harbour. But Dad would never do anything like that. He doesn’t do bad things. He’d never ever steal, Mum says he’s so honest that he wouldn’t even want to pick up a coin someone had dropped in the street. He has a bit of a temper and shouts at me when he’s annoyed, but he’s never hit me or anyone that I know of, and he always begs pardon after he loses his temper. He doesn’t gamble except once a year for the Melbourne Cup. He enjoys a glass of beer but never gets drunk. And he hates people to be badly treated. He’s stood up to bullies in the past. But that’s all. And that isn’t wrong. But it could get him into trouble. What if he stood up to someone and that someone was a superior officer so they put him in prison for it?

  I can imagine that, knowing Dad. But I don’t dare to ask Mum if that’s what she’s afraid of. I don’t dare to ask if that’s what that nurse suggested to her, the thing she couldn’t speak about in front of us. It scares me to think of Dad locked up and what might happen to him. I have heard that in some of the other armies, like the British and French ones, they shoot people for mutiny and desertion, and ordinary crimes too. They don’t have the death penalty in the AIF, but they could still make things very tough if you do the wrong thing. I can’t imagine Dad in prison. He loves freedom and the outdoors too much, he’d get so sad and angry if he was locked up and unable to get word to us …

  Stop it, Annie. You are just imagining things. Stop it, put this away, go to sleep. Right?

  March 17

  Mum went out early this morning, before I woke up. I found a small pile of books on her bed with a note from her reading, ‘Paul Baudin has lent these to you, Annie. Make sure you thank him for them. See you this afternoon.’

  No word about where she was going or what she was doing, though I supposed she might be going to see May Pryce again. I fretted about it for a little while, but it didn’t get me anywhere, so after breakfast I settled down with the books. (Paul is nowhere to be seen either, though it’s Saturday, so I couldn’t thank him like Mum says I should. I hope she forgets about it later.)

  Anyway, the books are good. Two of them are like the funny pictures in the papers, except not just little strips, but full proper stories in stiff covers. They are about a young peasant girl from Brittany who is nicknamed ‘Becassine’ and who works for a lady who has a big house. Becassine is really nice but also really rather daft (which is what her nickname means) and she gets into all sorts of scrapes. One is like an introduction to Becassine, and it was done before the war, but the other is set now, in the war. I really like them!

  There’s a couple of novels as well. They are both by Jules Verne, a French author I have read in English. One is called Michel Strogoff. I haven’t read it before. The other is 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, which I have read but a year or so ago. So I have plenty to read now, which is a relief. Madame Baudin told me at breakfast that there are plenty more and whenever I run out, I must just say so and they will lend me more. She seemed glad that I liked the Becassine books and said she had met the illustrator of them once and he was a very nice man.

  Madame Baudin suggested I go for a walk with her this morning. We went down to the river for a bit. We watched ducks paddling and birds and frogs hopping about and ants scurrying and once—erk!—near a demolished house we saw a couple of rats slinking along. It is funny to think that animals have no idea there’s a war on (though I suppose they must keep well clear of the battlefields, because of the noise) and of course they would not understand it at all, because they don’t have wars. But it must still affect some of them, especially the domestic animals who are left behind when their owners flee. Though Madame Baudin says most people take not only their cows and horses if they can, but also their cats and dogs with them, and that’s why when places are abandoned you get mice and rats taking over—not to mention looters who take advantage of the fact the owners are no longer in their empty houses to pillage everything they can lay their thieving hands on.

  ‘I don’
t know how people can do low-down things like that,’ I said indignantly.

  She gave a sad smile. ‘That’s the way of the world. Anything out of the ordinary brings out the bad as well as the good in people. And in war—well, war turns people inside out. Not only does it kill our young men and destroy our towns, it changes even those of us who survive. And it reveals terrible things. If I’ve learned one thing in my life, it’s this: whether civilian or soldier, young or old, man or woman, rich or poor, we don’t know what we’re capable of until it happens.’ She looks at me. ‘This is the second time in my life that the Boche have invaded my country. Last time their war killed my little sister, from starvation. This time it was my son, killed on the battlefield. I try not to hate, because I know it is not Christian, and because it hardens and corrodes the heart. But I’m only human. I can’t turn the other cheek.’

  ‘Everyone hates the Germans,’ I say.

  ‘You’d be surprised, Annie. The soldiers—they don’t always, at least those who aren’t French. It’s different if it’s not your country that’s invaded, you see. You can see it more—more dispassionately, perhaps. Jack Packard, my Australian lodger, told me how he felt one day. “I really want to beat Jerry,” he said. “And I kill them when I have to. That’s war. Kill or be killed. But I don’t hate them, not as a general rule, though one or two I’ve hated because they killed mates of mine. Mostly though I don’t,” he said. “They’re just soldiers. I know what they’re going through, because it’s the same as us.”‘ Her voice got harder. ‘But I can’t be like that. I don’t care what the Boche are going through. This war is their fault. And yes, I do hate them. But would I kill one of them, if he was in front of me, helpless? No. I could not. I would feel—incapable.’ She shrugged. ‘I would not make a good soldier, would I?’

  It is so strange. You hate them, but you can’t kill them. You don’t hate, but you can kill them. I can’t understand it. Madame Baudin said that you don’t know what you’re capable of until it happens. It makes me feel uneasy. Because if she’s right then you can’t know what other people might be capable of either. And that’s scary. Because you can’t be sure of anyone, can you? Not even if it’s people close to you, like your dad …

  No. Stop. I don’t want to think about it anymore!

  Mum came back by dinner time. She’s jumpy again, the hectic brightness is back in her glance, and she eats like she’s not even aware of what she’s putting in her mouth. She talked a lot but about unimportant things, practically nothing about what she’d been doing all day. All she said was that she’d been back to Bertangles to see May Pryce but that nothing had come up yet. But I’m worried because there’s a look in her eye that I’ve seen before. A kind of secret excitement. I have a sinking feeling that that much more has happened than she’s letting on. But she’s decided to clam up, and that’s always a bad, bad sign with Mum. Dad would say it means she’s about to rush headlong into some mad scheme. I’ve got to try and keep an eye on her, or who can tell what she might do, and what might happen to her?

  March 18

  Today I was able to keep Mum in my sight pretty much all day. Not that it was any big achievement, as she stayed quietly at home, apart from when we went together to Mass early this morning with Madame Baudin—not in the cathedral, but in one of the little parish churches near here. Paul came with us. It was just like Mass at home, except that the church was so old and there were graves in there of people who had died four hundred years ago, imagine! The priest gave a sermon about how even in these dark days we should never lose hope, and be grateful for small kindnesses. Maybe I was inspired by the priest’s sermon, or Mum’s glance at me, but I went up to Paul after church and said, ‘I want to thank you for lending me those books.’

  ‘It was my grandmother’s idea,’ he mumbled, not looking at me.

  ‘Oh. Thank you anyway.’

  ‘I didn’t even know you could read French. Not after hearing you speak. You make quite a few mistakes when you speak.’

  I was too startled to respond properly so I said, stupidly, ‘Oh. Well, thanks.’

  ‘It’s not a compliment. You should learn French better.’

  I stared at him disbelievingly. He stared right back. Like I’ve noticed before, he has very black eyes, like polished stones. Hard, unblinking, cold.

  I opened my mouth to say something really cutting, like I’m sure your English must be excellent then, let’s hear it! but I was just too thrown to say anything at all. Turning on my heel, I hurried after Mum and Madame Baudin with as much dignity as I could muster.

  I have no idea why he spoke to me like that. What’s wrong with him? I haven’t done anything, except borrow his books. As soon as I got back I put them outside his door. I don’t want to touch his things. He is a horrible, horrible person and if I never see him again I will be very happy. But of course I will because we’re in his house. I think about what the Clermonts said about him being a rude and sullen sort of person. They were so right. But why is he like that? Yes he has had bad things happen to him, but so has his grandmother and she is really nice. Anyway, why take it out on me? Oh, I won’t think about him anymore. I don’t care about him. I will just not talk to him at all or look at him even if he is going to be like that. It’s going to be uncomfortable being here with that person around but I just have to try and avoid him. Neither Mum nor his grandma have noticed anything. Grown-ups can be so blind when they want to be.

  Mum didn’t say anything at all about looking for Dad today, and though I listened carefully when I could to her conversations with Madame Baudin, I heard nothing of interest. It was almost like they are pretending everything is normal even though nothing is, nothing.

  After lunch Mum went to our room for a lie-down and I was allowed to go on my own for a short walk up to the cathedral. I had remembered Dad saying in a letter that he’d seen a funny carving there that reminded him of when he was a kid and used to fight with his brother and sister. So I went to look for it, just to feel closer to him.

  It’s a funny thing about Amiens cathedral. Yes, there are the things you expect, lots of statues and carvings of Our Lord and Our Lady and angels and saints and good people, but there are also lots of other things you wouldn’t expect to see on a holy building. There are grotesque gargoyles with their tongues out, and monkeys and griffins and lions, and things like little devils with horns, and strange, frightening-looking people with mad grins. Under the big main statues there are carvings, things you wouldn’t expect—like a man beating a bear, and a beggar with a bowl, and the carving Dad had told me about, of two people pulling each other’s hair. The way it was placed under the statue’s feet, the faces all scrunched up, it was like the holy person was disgusted by their behaviour and was squashing them. I looked at it for quite a while, imagining Dad and Auntie Marjorie or Uncle Russ when they were kids, fighting like that. It was funny!

  Suddenly a voice said behind me, in French, ‘That reminds me of fighting with my little sister.’

  I turned to see a young French soldier smiling at me. I said, ‘Oh, yes!’

  ‘She’d be about your age. We used to fight like cats and dogs. Not so much now, though.’ He put his head on one side and peered closer at the carvings. ‘I’ve only seen them in photographs before—never in real life. They’re quite something, aren’t they?’

  I nodded.

  ‘They are very famous. Like lessons in a stone book.’

  That’s what Dad had said, I thought—that the cathedrals were like stone books.

  He went on. ‘They are examples of sins, you see. The bear-beater represents cruelty, the hair-pullers anger, the beggar laziness.’