CHAPTER 29

My First Picnic

One Friday night, Pearl convinced Mum to lend her the double bed for a bit of privacy with her Yank. So, Mum, her own Yank and I left the house with a couple of cold bottles of beer and a rug. Our destination was some vacant land about a mile away, where Mum said we would have a picnic. I’d heard of people having picnics, it sounded fun. My mate Laurie once told me he’d gone with his mum and dad in their car to a park for a picnic. Our picnic didn’t require much preparation. We left home under cover of darkness. Discretion was in order. I saw it a bit like a commando raid and I was readily sucked into the conspiracy.

Food was found along the way with me getting 10 shillings from the Yank to buy fish ’n’ chips. On Friday nights, the fish ’n’ chip shop did huge business – it was pay night and the Catholics had to eat fish. Mum and her Yank weren’t about to take verbal abuse from a bunch of fairly drunk, Catholic moralists who thought our girls should be waiting for our boys to come marching home; they stood inconspicuously in the shadows across the street while I sought supplies. Mission accomplished, we went to the vacant lot with houses on either side to sit on the rug, where we greedily ate the huge packet of fish ’n’ chips.

You couldn’t see anything with the blackout, but we managed. The Yank opened the beer with his teeth because he knew how impressed we were with the Americans’ gleaming dental work. They hadn’t brought anything for me to drink, and I hated beer, even the smell of it. But Yanks were famous for being resourceful and this one was no exception. He slipped me two shillings and told me to get a Coke. The fact that our local shops didn’t sell Coke didn’t bother me one iota; one does not see two shillings very often, let alone have the heavy silver coin in one’s hand to use as one wished.

When I got back to the main street the fish ’n’ chip shop was closing and everything else was long shut. However, good little soldiers like myself were resourceful also, particularly on a commando raid and particularly with two bob to spend. There was a cinema in the next suburb called The Western, where I had attended Saturday matinees. If I got a move on, I could be there before they closed their sweet shop after interval. Unerringly, I walked through blacked-out streets; all I had to do was walk south and east. My father was an air force navigator after all, so I did understand the principles of finding a target. Even in darkness. Even behind enemy lines.

Quickly, I moved forward on my best silent feet; no-one would catch me unawares; secrecy was my strength and sugar my desire. It took me about an hour, but I made direct contact with my target. And yes, the shop was lit but empty. The mob had just returned for the main feature and the shop crew were tidying up. But they took my order for a chocolate malted without question and made change for my florin. They were a little surprised when I then ordered a strawberry and pineapple double-headed ice cream and rather impressed when I chose a quarter pound block of milk chocolate for the long journey back to base camp. Another long walk tested my strength, but I had a full happy tummy.

Mum and her Yank were not concerned that I had been gone two and half hours. They seemed rather pleased. Particularly the Yank, who likely got his two bobs’ worth

By now, Mum had experienced a stream of American lovers. It was exciting. She’d never shared a bed with anyone except Dad, and that had become a chore. Mum still wasn’t turned on about sex, but she thought it was the least she could do in return for the good times the glamorous Yanks showed her. They were invariably so young and sweet. They always used condoms and who knew, they might be killed in a few days’ time.

***

Outings were rare during the war. Once we went to Williamstown to the launch of a ship Grandpa had built. It slid into the water with a mighty splash, but the best part was when Mum foolishly stood on the slipway and nearly slipped in herself. She saw me laugh, but couldn’t even hit me with Grandpa watching.

There always seemed to be soldiers marching in the city, and Mum would take me even though I was too short to see them. Once we went to Princes Pier and went aboard an American submarine. Some friendly sailors took Mum and Roma and me to a private place, then one of them took me for a long walk through the engine room and down a spooky tunnel with nothing in it except the drive shaft for the propeller. I was crying, wanting to go back, but the sailor said he would give me sixpence if I waited a little longer.

At Christmas I get more clothes, but still no toys. For best, I now have matching green shorts and a shirt with chevron stripes on the collar and a necktie with a fighter plane on it. It is my uniform. I am a proper little flyboy. Mum likes the outfit so much that for my sixth birthday, she takes me to Peter Fox’s studios in the city to have my photo taken. I’m a proper serious little boy. I’m trying to be good and do what the photographer tells me. ‘Turn your head this way. A bit more. Turn your eyes to the left. Smile. Just one more.’ With all the stress of the war, how can he expect me to smile?

***

For the Yanks, their occupation of Melbourne is about over. They’re moving north, island-hopping to Japan and leaving the girls behind. Ultimately, 2500 servicemen will take their discharge in Australia and marry their girlfriends, who are usually pregnant. The Aussies are bogged down in a nasty little war in New Guinea that has become a sideshow to the main event – the invasion of Japan. The dirty Nips are being softened up by massive bombing attacks and the atomic bombs are yet to come. MacArthur came back after all.

Mum’s not happy. Not only about her Yanks leaving, but also because our butter ration is dropped to 6 ounces every week so the Brits can have the other 2 ounces. When her hot water bottle bursts and she can’t replace it, she’s ropeable; rubber has been in short supply with the Japs occupying Malaya. Melbourne beer is still rationed and Mum has no Yanks to pay the black market prices. Melbourne now looks drab, scruffy and weary. Things are crook.