King Rat

But three years is a long time to write and not know, if he’s alive or dead, or if you’re writing to a ghost or if you’re writing to a mutilated man or if you’re writing to the man, your husband, the same man you kissed good-by an eternity ago. Today, one of the wives had had one of the strange little postcards that somehow, for no apparent reason, mysteriously trickled from the emptiness of the Jap-held lands. The military authorities or the government could not explain why a certain card had arrived. There was no rule. And as much as the Red Cross tried to get into contact, or get lists of prisoners and the state of their health, the Japs wouldn’t cooperate at all. Then for no apparent reason the Japs would pass over a dozen postcards, some written a year before, some a day or two previously—some clean, some censored so heavily that only the signature remained. But even a signature was good. One of the wives had phenomenal luck—she had received three postcards. One a year. But Betty Larkin, “Mrs. Colonel,” had not received one. Not one.

“Ladies”—Betty knocked on the table to get order and they settled down—“We’d better get back to the last piece of business, then we can all be on our way. I’m sure you’ll want to get back to your families, and let’s hope we can all get on the bus tonight.”

The ladies laughed politely, for what with the petrol rationing, and the lack of transport, getting home could be quite an adventure.

“We’ve had no news that I can pass on to you. The situation is more or less the same. But as the Germans are on the run in Europe, it looks as though that war will be over soon. Once that’s over, then the troops will be sent out here to Australia to fight our war.”

Betty told herself that it was foolish for her to flag-wave and act like a war commentator, but it was expected of her and it seemed to give them all a little more hope. Terrible rumors had been leaking out from Malaya for years about atrocities and horrors and how many men had died from malnutrition and disease. But those were probably stories, just like the stories of the last war that old Mrs. Timsen was told when her husband was caught by the Turks and Germans at Gallipoli. But now it was her son that was caught somewhere in Malaya. And she gave the others hope, for the stories she was told were not all true, and her husband did come home at war’s end.

Betty picked up the postcard and held it up. “Mrs. Gurble got this postcard two days ago. Like the twenty-four cards we’ve had between us, the writing’s printed. But Mrs. Gurble feels that she can recognize the handwriting.” Then, as was the custom, Betty read it out. They always shared news from anyone in the regiment. It helped the others. “It reads: ‘Darling Sarah. I am well and happy. Please take care of Jinny. Love Victor.’” Betty looked up and smiled. “Do you want to add anything, Sarah?”

Sarah Gurble was a beautiful, happy-go-lucky, child-wife. She had been married when she was sixteen, and was a mother at eighteen and her child was as beautiful as she was. She worked in a munitions factory and wrote her husband every day, even now, three years later. At twenty-one, Sarah Gurble was a joy to see.

“No, Mrs. Colonel.” She looked around the room. “Except that this is the only card I’ve received. But at least I know he’s alive. And that makes me feel that all our men are alive. If I’ve got a card, well, there’s no reason why all of you won’t get one soon.” The tears were running down her cheeks. “I’m just so happy to share my happiness and I don’t want you all to think I don’t know how you feel, waiting and hoping and praying. I’m—I’m just so happy—”

Betty crossed the room and held her close and stopped the tears. Truly, Betty was a mother to her brood of women and she was trying, very hard, to do what her Grant would expect of her. “There, there, Sarah.”

That was the final thing they had to do and soon the room began to empty. Betty sighed, tired. Sarah was lucky to get a letter. Perhaps soon, I’ll get one. She promised herself that next day, perhaps, one would arrive. Oh Grant, are you alive? Are you?

“Er, Mrs. Colonel, ma’am?”

The rasping voice pulled her out of her thoughts and she looked at the little woman standing in front of her. The woman smelled badly and her hair was lank and dirty, and the old clothes she wore badly needed cleaning. The woman was scarecrow-built. Flat, ugly, a thin stick, and her nose was running. It was always running, and it had always run for as long as Betty had known the woman. That was five—going on six years. And, as much as she tried, Betty Larkin could not stop the dislike rising in her.

“Yes, Mrs. Masters?”

“It’s like this ’ere,” Molly Masters began, and her forehead was beaded with perspiration. “It’s about my Tom’s money.”

“What about it, Mrs. Masters?”

“Well, I ain’t been getting ’is pay like, for the last month.”