Never Forget

The Announcement

CLEMENCE

Still bearing the battering scars endured from the last conflict, the world is once again inflicting itself with a pain that does not discriminate against age, race or religion. Powerful leaders in their bid to claim a righteous justification of supremacy have thrown the Earth off its axis. The human race is once again in chaos.

It is September 3, 1939; I am sitting at the kitchen table with my family. We have gathered  this evening to wait for the announcement. Rumours and speculation have already portrayed the essence of the pending message but to witness a pivotal turning point in the history of a nation will be confirmation of a fate no longer within our control. At the head of the table is my husband Christopher. With his usual disregard for fashion, he sits scrutinizing the racing guide in his white Bonds singlet stained with evidence of a hard day's work labouring. Through the lens of his black rimmed magnifying glass, he studies the form of each horse and with a pencil crudely sharpened with a razor blade, makes notes in the margin. Tomorrow he will venture in a shroud of secrecy to the backroom of the pub to lay his bets with Billy the SP bookmaker.

With the Great War reportedly buried in the past, I had married this man. Christopher Campbell, a loyal husband with a wicked sense of humour. Initially we made our home at 'Gowrie' North Wagga living with my in-laws, Jane and George Campbell. They were unpretentious and genuine folk who had welcomed me into their family. Jane, known for her compassion and gift as healer had a special way with people and it was a common occurrence for a stranger to knock at the door seeking her untrained medical assistance. The complete opposite of his son Christopher, George was reserved. He worked hard to care for his large family and for reasons known only to him and maybe his wife; he fiercely protected his private life. Having created a false persona of his true self, I, like the rest of the Campbell clan, relished the rare occasion when my father-in-law dropped his guard and delivered a quick-witted reply that generated contagious laughter around the dinner table.

From the security of 'Gowrie', we had moved to the small farming district of Stockinbingal, where Chris had worked as a labourer leaving me to look after our ever-growing family. For the most part, life was good but Chris' overzealous community spirit regularly left my blood boiling. Fed by his love of the gee-gees, a gene passed on to him by his father, Chris was a dedicated and quite possibly addicted to his position on the turf club committee. Late in the evening with his dinner left warming on the stove, I found it infuriating that these meetings had to take place at the local pub. I am not ashamed to admit that there was many a night, when the children were finally in bed, that I fought the urge to storm the public bar and drag my husband home. To enhance my grievances, Chris was always giving away our money. The hefty donations of sixty-pounds to the hospital, closely followed by ten pounds to a returned soldier had left me anxiously wringing my hands on my apron rather than around his neck. Yes, I agreed that both were worthy causes but heavens to Dixie, at the time I had no idea how I was going to stretch the household budget to cover such big-heartedness. However, for love and money, manage, we did and when George followed five years later by Jane, passed away my family returned to our former home in North Wagga.

The older boys had dribbled through the door from around 7pm, returning from work they washed up and helped themselves to the mutton pie, topped with mashed potato that sat in the middle of the table. I had made the pie earlier in the day and now watch as it whittles away with each serving cut. Having eaten at home, Keith with his wife Vera was the last of the boys to arrive and 15-year-old Max who was in his last year of schooling has been grazing all day, as growing boys do.

I had told my 10-year-old daughter, Avis, to go to bed at straight after dinner. At her age, I do not think that she needs the burden of the hype that will surround the announcement. Melodramatically she had complained of the unfairness of being born the youngest and declared that if she was old enough to wash up, she was old enough to stay up and listen to a broadcast that will destroy her family. Her older sisters saw reason in her argument but knowing my feelings were unwilling stick their necks on the chopping block and argue her case.

Looking around the pastel green walls of the kitchen, I notice the unusual silence of my boisterous brood of nine. I scan their faces trying to determine what the future will hold for each of them. For a split second, I glance at Avis, who thinks I have not noticed her. The cunning little minx has slipped out when my back was turned and sits as still as a church mouse, wedged in the gap between the larder and the wall corner. I also noticed the wink Christopher gave his daughter as she had crawled on fours like a cunning fox to her hidey-hole and every now and then, when he thinks I am not looking, he delivers a funny face in her direction. There is an occasion when his screwed and twisted face is so hysterically abnormal that Avis's spluttered giggle almost gives her away. However, Keith comes to her rescue and covers her blast with a muffled, squashing noise that causes his mouth to spit saliva across the table. When all eyes, including my own turn to him, he claims to be rehearsing his imitation of a duck. Secretly, I was glad that Keith has covered for his younger sister. His actions have saved me from having to scold the child for being disobedient. Reprimanding my youngest is the last thing I feel like doing this evening.

Eventually the music on crackling airwaves gives way to the haunting words of Prime Minister Robert Gordon Menzies:

Fellow Australians, it is my melancholy duty to inform you officially, that in consequence of a persistence by Germany in her invasion of Poland, Great Britain has declared war upon her and that, as a result, Australia is also at war. No harder task can fall to the lot of a democratic leader than to make such an announcement.

As the broadcast continues, I feel the hairs on my arms stand upright and prickle with icy horror. I swallow deeply trying to remove the gnarly ball of fear that is stuck in my throat. Christopher is also silent; I try to gauge what he is thinking. He looks from each of the boys delivering a weak smile that conveys a message confused with fear, pride and regret.

Tucked into the door of the green pantry cupboard, where Avis crouches, is a photograph that I have torn out of the local paper. In it, Christopher holds the centre back position and our sons Keith, George, Clive and Max are amongst the motley array of figures dressed in bleach white cricket uniforms that surround him. To the observer it is only a matter of time before our boys will outgrow their father and relegate him to the fringes of memorabilia. On and off the sparsely grassed fields, that often does more damage to their gravelled grazed knees than the opposition, the men in my life are comrades to the core and I know beyond a doubt that they will always place family first. Blessed with the gift of the gab, the unfamiliar quietness of my husband scares me and I realise that like me, he knows that the words spoken over the radio will unmercifully steal youth off our sons.