Loyal Creatures Read online

  Contents

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  A Note from the Author

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Morris Gleitzman grew up in England and came to Australia when he was sixteen. After university he worked for ten years as a screenwriter. Then he had a wonderful experience. He wrote a novel for young people. Now, after 35 books, he’s one of Australia’s most popular children’s authors. His books are published in more than 20 countries.

  Visit Morris at his website:

  www.morrisgleitzman.com

  Also by Morris Gleitzman

  The Other Facts of Life

  Second Childhood

  Two Weeks with the Queen

  Misery Guts

  Worry Warts

  Puppy Fat

  Blabber Mouth

  Sticky Beak

  Gift of the Gab

  Belly Flop

  Water Wings

  Wicked! (with Paul Jennings)

  Deadly! (with Paul Jennings)

  Bumface

  Adults Only

  Teacher’s Pet

  Toad Rage

  Toad Heaven

  Toad Away

  Toad Surprise

  Boy Overboard

  Girl Underground

  Worm Story

  Aristotle’s Nostril

  Doubting Thomas

  Grace

  Too Small to Fail

  Give Peas a Chance

  Pizza Cake

  Once

  Then

  After

  Now

  Extra Time

  For Michael and Clare Morpurgo

  They suffered wounds, thirst,

  hunger and weariness almost beyond

  endurance but never failed.

  They did not come home.

  Inscription on a memorial in

  Sydney’s Royal Botanic Gardens

  to the Australian horses in World War One.

  Nineteen fourteen.

  War.

  Did I want to go?

  Course I did.

  Who wouldn’t want to choof off to distant exotic places, give a pack of mongrel bullies what for and have the sort of experiences you just didn’t get in the Cudgegong district.

  When I told Dad I wanted to go, he tried to wallop me round the head with a canvas bucket.

  Not too hard, I was bigger than him. But I was still surprised. Hitting people with buckets wasn’t Dad’s style. Plus, since Mum died, me and Dad were a team. Mates. You didn’t go round whacking your mates in the head with work utensils.

  Something was going on.

  Dad glared at me.

  ‘You and me’ll be first in the trenches,’ he said, ‘if Germany invades New South Wales. Till then we’ll stay out of other dopey idiots’ wars.’

  I squinted up at the blokes riding past. They didn’t look that dopey to me.

  Me and Dad were on Mindalee Station, rigging up some irrigation for their kitchen garden. Bunch of the station hands were heading off to Sydney with their horses to volunteer for the fighting.

  My horse Daisy looked up from the carrot patch she was chewing on and gave a few snorts. Wishing the other horses luck, probably.

  Dad gave the blokes a nod. He knew some of them from the pub.

  They nodded back.

  ‘Don’t fall down a well, Ted,’ said one. ‘When we need reinforcements, we’ll be giving you a hoi.’

  Before Dad could reply, I spoke up.

  ‘No need,’ I said. ‘We’ll probably beat you lazy blighters there.’

  The bloke grinned as he rode off.

  I braced myself for another gobful of wet canvas, in case Dad was getting a taste for this method of arguing. But he just glared at me again.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘You’re fifteen.’

  Technically he was right. But I knew several blokes who’d volunteered at fifteen. Alright, sixteen. And the tall ones like me had been accepted if they were good at lying about their age.

  ‘I’m sixteen in five months,’ I reminded Dad.

  He frowned and looked like he was going to whack me again.

  Before he could, Mr Conroy the station owner came over.

  ‘Having a smoko, Ballantyne?’ said Mr Conroy to Dad. ‘It’s not Christmas yet.’

  Pushy blighter, he could see we weren’t. I didn’t even smoke. Mum reckoned tobacco was a waste of a bloke’s wages. Being careful with money was always important to Mum right to the end, so I promised her I wouldn’t smoke, permanent.

  I think Mum made Dad promise something too, at the end. About us not going to the war.

  ‘Be done today, Mr Conroy,’ said Dad, whacking a length of irrigation pipe instead of me.

  Mr Conroy looked at Daisy, who’d moved on to the peas.

  ‘Pity you didn’t finish earlier, Ballantyne,’ he said. ‘You could have volunteered with my blokes. Help sort them Huns and Turks out.’

  Dad didn’t reply at first.

  ‘Tell those nags to pull their heads in, Frankie,’ he said to me.

  Dad’s horse Jimmy had decided Daisy was onto a good thing in the veggies. I went over to roust them out.

  ‘Got the lad to look after,’ I heard Dad say to Mr Conroy.

  I didn’t hear what Mr Conroy said back, but while I was putting nosebags on Daisy and Jimmy, I heard grunting sounds.

  Dad was hacking into the dirt with the big pickaxe, shoulders knotted and teeth clenched with the effort of swinging the thing.

  That was my job. We’d agreed I’d do the heavy work. Dad’s back wasn’t the best. Old bloke’s curse, he reckoned. He was probably right, he was nearly thirty-six.

  I hurried over to give him a hand. And saw from his face it wasn’t just the hefty metal head of the pickaxe he was ramming down into the dirt.

  It was something else as well.

  Something he was feeling.

  That’s when I knew he wanted to go to war as much as I did.

  The German and Turk armies weren’t the only ones getting my blood up.

  Joan Prescott in the chemist was streets ahead of them. Forget the girls on soap packets. Joan was dead-set gorgeous. At school she had more freckles and knee scabs than the rest of us put together. And more skill at gumnut poker and more patience at training beetles.

  And more heart.

  She came to Mum’s funeral off her own bat.

  Trouble was, she’d got a scholarship to the grammar school. Her parents wouldn’t let her speak to me any more. But I still liked being in the same place as her, so I spent hours in that shop pretending to inspect ointments.

  ‘Frank, what are you doing?’

  I nearly dropped the jar. Joan had crept up behind me.

  ‘Shopping,’ I said.

  She rolled her eyes, which was something else she was good at. She could sink a deep well into your heart just by moving her eyeballs.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ she said.

  I knew she was just doing her job. Since her dad volunteered
for the war, she was assistant manager after school.

  ‘I’m a customer,’ I said. Which wasn’t what I wanted to say at all. What I wanted to say was, can I give your cheek a bit of a touch, just gently, if that’s alright with you.

  But I didn’t say that. I never had.

  Joan glanced anxiously around the shop as usual, checking if we were being watched.

  I tried to think what a grammar-school bloke would say right now.

  ‘Australia’s a free country,’ I said.

  ‘Frank,’ said Joan. ‘You know what my father reckons about this.’

  I sighed.

  Not old enough for boys, that’s what he reckoned. Which was bull. Joan had always been old enough for boys. Anyway, he didn’t mean all boys. Just boys who left school and dug holes for their dads.

  Joan gave me a sad look and pushed something into my hand.

  Cough lozenges. Three of them. She knew I liked them.

  Before I could say thank you, or please run away with me, somebody grabbed the jar of ointment out of my other hand.

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Prescott, thin-lipped, giving the label a read. ‘For the treatment of fungal infections of the feet, armpits and groin.’

  ‘I sweat a lot,’ I mumbled. ‘In my line of work.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Joan. ‘He does.’

  Mrs Prescott glared at Joan, then looked at me hard and cold. Mr Prescott must have told her to keep the unfriendliness going while he was away.

  ‘They use this stuff in the trenches,’ said Mrs Prescott. ‘But of course, your family wouldn’t know about trenches, would they?’

  I was about to tell her how me and Dad regularly dug irrigation channels and drainage ditches of all kinds, including trenches. Then I realised what she meant and kept my trap shut.

  Joan shuffled miserably. I could see she wanted to say something but didn’t dare. I did dare, but I kept quiet too. My aim, long term, was to win Joan’s mum’s admiration and respect. I probably wouldn’t do that if I told her to stick her head up her arse.

  ‘One shilling and ninepence,’ said Mrs Prescott.

  While I fumbled for the money, Joan looked at me sympathetically and Mrs Prescott looked at me like I was something you find wriggling at the bottom of a bore hole.

  But I knew all that could change.

  If I came back from the war with a chest full of medals all that could change, permanent.

  Choose the right moment, that was the go.

  Tell Dad what had just been announced in the paper. Exciting new war opportunities for blokes like him and me.

  Dead-set perfect for us, the Aussie Light Horse.

  Trouble was, I didn’t do a great job of picking the right moment.

  We were on a property out west, locating water for a farmer who needed it urgent. His cattle were like empty saddlebags.

  Dad was squinting out across the dusty mulga, checking the scrub patterns like we always did when we were deciding where a dam or bore could go.

  I should have saved the war talk for later, but suddenly I couldn’t keep my trap shut.

  ‘They’re putting a new Light Horse regiment together,’ I said to Dad. ‘Mounted infantry.’

  Dad stopped squinting at the scrub and squinted at me.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I heard.’

  I didn’t know he had. I pushed on.

  ‘Blokes are volunteering with their horses,’ I said. ‘Half the blokes I play footy with have gone already.’

  ‘Heard that too,’ said Dad.

  This time he didn’t look at me. Just the scrub.

  Daisy twitched against my knee. She was excited at the idea of volunteering. Well, I was pretty sure she would be once we’d done it.

  Come on Dad, I said to myself. Your face won’t crack if you show some interest.

  He didn’t.

  ‘Go and have a dig over there,’ he said, pointing.

  I knew Dad had picked the right spot even before I got the spade into the dirt. Daisy had her nose to the ground and was stamping her feet. She always got restless when water was close. I reckoned it was something to do with the gush of it when her foal was born, and how much she missed her daughter after the little tyke got sold.

  Dad came over and had a squiz at the soil and rocks I was turning up with my spade. Signs were good. Plus it was a flat spot. Handy for the drillers when they arrived with the big steam-driven rig.

  ‘Beauty,’ said Dad.

  He had a gift for finding water, everyone said so. Pity I didn’t have a gift for finding the right moment to open my gob.

  ‘Not just Europe now,’ I said. ‘The war’s in North Africa too.’

  Dad didn’t say anything.

  ‘Egypt,’ I said. ‘That’s where the Light Horse is going.’

  Dad flung his handful of dirt and rocks down so hard they bounced. His face had gone so red, for a sec I thought he was having a heart seizure.

  ‘Enough,’ he yelled.

  Daisy and Jimmy both took a step back.

  ‘Go and tell the cocky it’s his lucky day,’ said Dad. ‘Before it stops being yours and I ship you off to your cousins in Perth.’

  I didn’t argue. Not with Dad so riled.

  I hopped on Daisy and headed off towards the homestead. At times like this you didn’t steer Daisy, just pointed her. So when she flattened Dad’s billy with her hoof as we passed, it was her making a point, not me.

  As we got closer to the house, I saw the farmer. He was aiming a rifle at something on the ground.

  First off I thought it was a snake.

  Wished I hadn’t left my spade with Dad. No need to waste a bullet on a snake. If that cocky had bullets to waste, we should have been charging him full price.

  Then I saw it wasn’t a snake.

  It was a dog. An old fella, by the look. Just sitting on the ground gazing up at the cocky. And the gun.

  Farmers. Dogs work round the place for years, loyal as elastic-sided boots. Then when the poor mutts are too old, do they get a spell of thanks and decent meat?

  Do they heck.

  None of my business, but for the second time that day I couldn’t keep my trap shut.

  ‘Hey,’ I yelled. ‘Don’t.’

  Me and Daisy rode over fast.

  The farmer gave us a hard look, then turned his attention and his gun back to the dog.

  I shouldn’t have, but I jumped the cruel bugger. Daisy took me close, and next thing I was rolling on the ground with him.

  He was big. And angry.

  Gave me a thumping before Dad arrived.

  ‘Pull your heads in,’ said Dad, dragging us apart. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  The cocky explained.

  Dad was pretty ropeable when he got the gist.

  Cocky wouldn’t pay us. Wouldn’t even give me a cold rag for my blood nose.

  ‘You dopey idiot,’ said Dad after we rode off. ‘You know how farmers are with old dogs. What got into you?’

  I didn’t say anything.

  In the distance we heard a single gunshot. Daisy and Jimmy both dropped their heads.

  We rode on in silence.

  After a couple of miles, Dad started up again.

  ‘Going after a bloke twice your size,’ he said. ‘And a landowner at that.’

  He looked at me and nodded.

  ‘I’m proud of you, son,’ he said.

  Rest of that trip was good. Mostly on account of me keeping my trap shut about the war.

  Dad forgave me for losing our pay. Said it was worth it. Said at least the dog would have known at the end that someone was on his side.

  I stared into the campfire and kept quiet. When your old man’s got the biggest heart in the district, best not to go on about it.

  We did another job on the way back. Fixed up an old well at an abattoir. Manager thought it was dry, but it was just clogged. Dad knew in his bones there was water down there.

  We got paid for that one so we were happy. Made an early start
home the next morning. Daisy and Jimmy at a trot, all of us chipper as anything. Dad even had a bit of a whistle, which he hadn’t done since Mum died.

  Then we reached town and saw the hearse outside the pub.

  Two coffins. An army hat on each one.

  Empty coffins of course. The bodies were still over there, on some foreign battlefield. Army couldn’t bring them back. Too hard to find the bits, probably.

  Dad swore, which wasn’t his style.

  He went into the pub to make inquiries. While he was in there, a group of women and girls in funeral clothes came down the main street.

  One of them was Joan. Her mother was with her.

  I got off Daisy, to show respect and so Joan’s mum could see I had manners.

  A horrible thought hit me. Was one of the coffins for Joan’s dad?

  As Joan went past, I blurted it out.

  ‘Is your dad alright?’ I said.

  Joan stopped, uncertain. Her mother gave her a sharp push to keep her moving.

  ‘Major Prescott is fine,’ said Mrs Prescott as she signalled to Joan to keep walking down the street. ‘He’s dispensing medicine in Egypt.’

  The other women looked at me in a not very friendly way.

  ‘So, Francis,’ said one. ‘What about your father?’

  ‘Pretty right, thanks,’ I said. ‘He’s in the pub.’

  The women made disgusted noises as they walked off. I should have gone after them, explained they’d got it wrong. But I didn’t. Joan was glancing back at me and I didn’t want to get her into more strife.

  When Dad came out of the pub, his face was dark. He paused by the hearse and touched both the coffins.

  ‘Who are they?’ I said.

  ‘Ron and Nobby Shanks,’ muttered Dad. ‘Those mongrel Huns and Turks need a talking to.’

  It was my day for saying stupid things.

  ‘Thought you reckoned this was some other idiots’ war,’ I said.

  Dad gave me a look. I was glad the bucket was in the back of the rig.

  ‘They’ve killed two of my mates,’ said Dad. ‘So now it’s personal.’

  Poor Dad looked pretty smitten. But I couldn’t help thinking about the bright side.

  ‘That mean we’ll be going?’ I said.

  Dad looked at me. He looked at the coffins. Then he swore and went back into the pub.

  I waited with Daisy and Jimmy. Couple of blokes came out and took the hearse away.