Storms at sea can be very nasty. But they aren’t sly. It’s possible to forecast them. When a storm is blowing up, you prepare for it. The cables securing the cargo in the hold must be checked and the hatches on the deck battened down. Everything loose has to be stowed away and the lifeboat made ready for launching in case the worst comes to the worst.
One of the reasons I never feel particularly fearful when a storm is brewing at sea is because I simply don’t have time. That’s a good thing.
I know a fair amount about storms at sea, but I scarcely know anything about war. And it was war—not a storm—that was approaching. That’s what Tommy Tarantello had said. But how was the war going to start? And when? And what should I be doing to be ready for it?
I really wished there were some hatches to batten down and cargo to secure. But there was nothing I could do, nothing apart from wait and hope for the best. 304
The days passed. Everything went on as usual in the house on Oswald Street and none of the gang seemed to suspect anything. No one apart from Bernie and me. Dark shadows under Bernie’s eyes revealed how badly he was sleeping at night, and his hands had begun to tremble. That made him even more clumsy, and in order to cover the shakes he kept his hands in his trouser pockets when anyone was around.
One evening Bernie had an accident. While reaching up for a saucepan on the top shelf in his larder, he fumbled with the pan and knocked down the red, tin box with the big padlock. The box hit the floor with such force that the padlock burst open, the lid came off and the contents of the box flew out.
Bernie gave a sigh and crouched down to pick up his bits and pieces. There was an official document that looked as if it was his birth certificate, a small, wooden toy car and an old and yellowed photograph. These were Bernie’s most treasured possessions.
While Bernie was anxiously checking that his toy car hadn’t been damaged in the fall, I took the opportunity to study the photograph more closely. It had been taken indoors and showed a girl and a boy standing beside one another on a wide wooden staircase with a carved banister. Light was entering through a tall, narrow window in the panelled wall. The children appeared 305to be dressed in their good clothes. He was wearing his Sunday best suit and she was dressed in a frock and laced boots. Her hair was up, under a little hat and ribbon. The boy was bigger than the girl but nevertheless seemed to be a couple of years younger. It took me a moment or two before I realized who I was looking at.
It was Moira and Bernie.
I recognized Moira first. She hadn’t changed a great deal even though the photograph must be at least thirty years old. The line of her mouth was firm and her gaze steady.
Bernie, on the other hand, wasn’t so easy to recognize. The boy in the photograph was giving a big smile, as if someone had just said something funny. If it hadn’t been for the fact that I had actually seen Bernie smile, I’d have never guessed he was the boy in the photograph.
In spite of all the differences between the two children, it was easy to see they were brother and sister. The photograph had been taken, of course, before Bernie started boxing and had his face severely knocked about.
I noticed Bernie watching me as I studied the picture.
“That was a long time ago,” he said with a sigh.
I turned the photo over to see if anything was written on the back. There was nothing there. 306
A couple of hours later I was lying under my blanket staring at the ceiling of my cellar. At regular intervals the trains rumbled past up on the railway bridge. Even though it was late and I should have been tired after a long day, I was having difficulty getting to sleep. I wondered where the photograph of Moira and Bernie had been taken. Bernie had looked so happy and hopeful that I felt sad for him. He couldn’t have known then how his life would turn out.
I had to put this out of my mind and think pleasant thoughts if I was to get any sleep. But the first thing that came into my head was the sound of Tommy Tarantello’s voice when he said, “Get out of this town as quickly as you can! Because there is soon going to be a war.”
I didn’t get much sleep that night.