Dream Small

To be caught harbouring me would mean her death. To be caught out after curfew with an allied pilot... She cried out my name as I entered her each evening. She sobbed it again when I withdrew spent. We both knew this could come to nothing. We both knew I would leave.

Her namesake's daughter now swims as Renee taught me all those years ago. Steady, strong strokes that won me my life and by extrapolation this young woman's.

Renee often visits my thoughts. She had no reason to assist me. She would have been much smarter to have left me hanging in the chestnut tree beside her house and to notify the occupying Germans. But for some reason, when that ak-ak exploded, destroying my controls and I ejected the canopy to bail out ungracefully, landing unconscious from blood loss, less one testicle in her tree, she cut my parachute down and hid me in her wine cellar.

It took weeks before I could walk without pain. Two months before she invited me into her bed. A further five months before she declared me fit enough to attempt my return to Britain. And those five months... I didn't want to leave. We made love in the house through the day and she taught me to swim by night and then we made love again. She had long since given up on the Lysol douches and I knew she was having my baby when I kissed her goodbye to begin the hundred-mile trek from her farmhouse outside of Rouen to Calais on the coast.

I often wonder, even more so now as I watch my grandchild, what our baby would have looked like. It ran through my mind all night as I swam through the channel toward the moonlit cliffs so far away. My heart urged me to turn around. My mind told me it was futile and would lead only to her and my unborn child's most certain death. I swam toward the future I had promised her I'd remember her in.

Perhaps I'll spare my little Sasha that story. Perhaps I'll tell Monty one day. My eldest son. He lies somewhere over in Vietnam. I visit his memorial now and then and talk to him about life. He was named after the Montgomery Fitzgerald, a fishing vessel who's watch somehow saw me splashing slowly through the ink black ocean and pulled me aboard. Why trawlers would brave u-boat filled waters spoke of need for food, not so much of bravery, but I was in their eternal debt.

"Grandad?"

"Darling?"

"What? Are you ok?"

"Just remembering things. You make me very proud Sashy. Remember that. Thank you for this trip down memory lane."

"Are you getting in, wierdo?"

I do. My eyes are leaking. I rub at them and pretend it's pool water. That was a whole other world away. I wonder if Renee lived and if she ever told her child about me. The man who fell into her tree and madly in love with her. In love with her enough to leave for her own good.

That afternoon we sit again in front of the tape recorder and Sasha asks, "So, Grandad. How did you meet Grandma? Was it love at first sight?"

I'm afraid I laughed rather too hard at that, bringing a frown to Sasha's face. Perhaps she thought I was making fun of her.

"Oh dear, Sashy. Far, far from it. I remember it clearly though. I was fourteen still, not far from fifteen and almost finished my apprenticeship as a barber. Her family had moved to town a few years earlier. Her father was the local police sergeant. One afternoon I was trimming Col Jansen's beard when she walked into the shop and silenced it instantly. She was probably eighteen at the time and quite a looker."

"She was pretty, Grandad?"

"More than pretty. She was tall with a fit but very womanly figure. Her hair was shoulder length ringlets of auburn that glinted red and gold where the light hit it. Even without makeup, her skin was flawless and a healthy creamy complexion with a glow of pink to her cheeks. Her lips I noticed first. I was very shy around girls, having never known a sister. When she spoke, I was frozen in place, scissors like this at old Col's beard, staring at her lips."

"What did she say?"

"She spoke directly to Mr Milton, ignored me and everyone else completely. Her voice was steady and clear. 'My father requires your services', she told him. 'Then your father will need to bring his hair to me.' 'I'm afraid that's out of the question. He's far too busy to leave the station today and he has the inspector arriving tomorrow. You do know who my father is?' Well, Mr Milton put down his clippers and folded his arms across his chest as he did when he was about to become very angry."

"Oh no. Did he tell her off?"

"He watched her for a very long moment then said, 'It's customary for people to attend my shop. I don't offer house calls. Perhaps you could negotiate a rate with my apprentice.' I was a little surprised. I did attend some older folk's homes by personal arrangement from time to time, but I'd never been told to negotiate a price. Often it was gratis on account of Mrs Milton's generosity."

"So, did you agree? Is that how you got her to like you?"

"Hardly. I looked her up and down and said, 'I guess I could do it for three bob'. Now, you need to know that Mr Milton, an experienced barber only charged two shillings for a shave, shine and shearing; the works. For an apprentice to ask three-bob was a little cheeky, but for a person to demand a home visit was also a little cheeky as well. Mr Milton smiled at my reply and I set about Col's beard again like it was nothing out of the ordinary."

"How did she take it?"

"She put her hands on her hips and said, 'Well I never!' and straight out left. Mr Milton shrugged and we watched her storm off up the road. 'Pretty thing, if she ever got down off that high horse,' Mr Milton joked. She was back in twenty minutes with an envelope that she stuffed furiously into my hand without saying a word. When I opened it there were three shillings and a careful hand had written, 'Bring some parade gloss, too please.'"

"Would you like another Scotch Grandad?"

"Sure, let's get some sandwiches too."

"I'll make them. You sit."

"Thanks Sashy." I watch her leave and there's a skip to her step similar to her Grandmother's all those years ago. That afternoon as I followed her haughty stride up the road to the police station, I found myself staring at Lorna's hips and the shape of her bottom under the curt knee length skirt. I won't be telling young Sasha too much about my imaginations. She returns in a moment and sets a plate of ham and tomato sandwiches next to a slightly more generously mixed scotch.

"So, Grandad." She presses the tape recorder buttons. "You accepted the money and cut her father's hair?"

"Indeed. She wouldn't speak to me at all, just walked in front of me all the way up the hill to the police station."

"Doesn't sound very much like the beginning of a love story."

"Oh, but it was. Just not with her."

"Who then?"

"Look the thing about old men like myself is they like to tell the whole story and they wander off down a lot of side-tracks as they do it. I'm sorry if it's a bit frustrating. I'm just trying to remember things as I go."

"That's okay. You were following her..."

"Indeed." I smile remembering the swing of her hips. "Ahem. Her father was a pleasant man. Very businesslike and dignified. He had me shave him clean and trim his hair into a very short back and sides as was common back then. I polished his boots until you could use them as a mirror, and he regaled me with police stories the whole time."

"What about Grandma?"

"She took off the moment she introduced us. It wasn't until I was nearly finished that I heard giggling and thought maybe she'd returned. Instead, Sergeant Sullivan called out, 'Jeanie? Make yourself useful girl and bring this young man and I some soda.' Now, I hardly ever had fizzy drinks back then. There was a cordial truck that came to town once every now and then and the shop stocked some too, but it was sixpence a bottle and I was saving money."

"Who was Jeanie?"

"Jeanie was the sweetest girl I'd ever met. She looked much like your Grandmother just a few years younger. The same age as me. She blushed furiously when she brought us our drinks and the Sergeant smiled at her and asked, 'What is it, dolly?' That was his pet name for her. 'Mother says that this boy does girl's hair too.'"

"Did you? You were a barber. Don't barbers just do men?"

"Barbers did a lot more back then. There was a nurse stationed in town but no doctors. Mr Milton had been a medic in the Boer war and the nurse used his experience to help with things like sutures and setting bones. Little things. I got good at that too. And there was a lady, Mrs Stringer who came to town once a week and used the spare chair in the barber shop to do women's hair. She was very kind to a shy country boy like me and because I couldn't take work on those days, Mr Milton had me assist her with tints and styling and so on."

"So, you did do girl's hair?"

"Mostly children's and some old ladies. I was still learning. It was very different to clipping and trimming. But I was getting fairly good."

"Did you do her hair?"

"Well, yes. Her father asked me if it was true and I nodded, 'Some. Nothing fancy.' He then smiled at me and told her, 'Well Dolly, this young man doesn't do home visits, you will have to negotiate your own rate with him.' 'I have a shilling. Will that do?' She asked me and she could have offered me a cup of tea and I would have said yes. Her blush had my heart all aflutter and I couldn't speak well. I was terribly shy. 'Well, boy?' the Sergeant asked. I nodded and had her sit in his chair. I used the sheet I'd used on him and draped it around her shoulders and asked her what she wanted done. As I brushed at her hair, I noticed headlice. Headlice were very common back then and treatment was simple for men and not so nice for women."

"Nits?"

"Yes. It was awkward to say the least. With men, I just told them and shaved their heads clean. 'Miss Sullivan. First, we need to wash your hair. Is there a sink? A tub?' She led me to the bathroom and I put a chair in front of the basin. I asked the Sergeant for some kerosene and a towel. Washing hair was not very common back then. There was only soap."

"No conditioner? No shampoo?"

"Well, there was a liquid soap that we used at the barber shop. And oils we used for men's beards. For women, Mrs Stringer used a hydrolysed blend of paraffin and lanolin as a treatment. I had none of those things with me so, used some plain soap and water to wash her hair. It was outrageously familiar for a little country town boy. I was so damn nervous touching her. When I was done, I massaged kero into her scalp and left it wrapped in a towel for a while. She could feel them biting as they died."

"Gross."

"She was so embarrassed. As we sat and waited, she asked me to hold her hand. 'I'm so sorry. The other kids have them all the time and it's terrible.' 'It's very common. If you come to the shop through the week after school, I have some special oils that will help.'"

"Did you?"

"Tea tree and eucalyptus oil. They were expensive then. I washed her hair again after she said they finished wriggling and then I combed it. It took a long time. Her mother came and checked now and then. She was kind and extremely strict like the Sergeant. The Kerosene made her hair easy to comb and when I had dried it sufficiently, she asked me to cut it to her shoulders. Her mother approved and I sat her back in her father's chair and did my absolute best to emulate Mrs Stringer's techniques. When I was done, I held mirrors for her, and she was so excited."

"You can't even go to the hairdressers if you've got nits, these days."

"Like I said, times were different. Lice didn't care if you were rich or poor. They were common. She held out her shilling to me with a beaming smile and I shook my head."

"Was it more expensive because of all the work?"

"No. I smiled right back and told her my price had changed. 'The going rate for any service you require from now on, is a kiss on my cheek.' Her father laughed, 'You are a stiff negotiator, I'll give you that.' She blushed furiously but pocketed her handful of saved coins and leaned up to peck me chastely on the cheek. 'Paid in full.' I told her and said, 'Stay away from lighters and stoves until the smell fades. Come and see me at the shop anytime you want braids or styling. The price is set and will remain in effect."

"You bloody charmer." Sasha slaps my arm. "This is great. Do you want another scotch?"

"Yes please." I tell her rattling the ice cubes in my glass.

"So, what about Grandma?" She asks as she pours another drink.

"Well, not much really. Jeanie came to the barber shop at least every other day and got her hair braided or styled before school and every time she made me blush by kissing me on the cheek, to the jeers of Mr Milton and any customers. Lorna visited one day and told me in her best haughty tones that I could do her hair for her. 'I need a trim and maybe a style like you did for Jeanie. I'm not kissing you on the cheek though, and I'm paying no more than a shilling.' 'The price is different for you.' I told her. 'You'll kiss me, but it will be on my arse.'"

"Oh god, Grandad. How did you two ever get together if you hated each other so much?"

"Well, we've got all weekend. Why rush a good yarn?"

"I'm glad I bought extra tapes."

"Lorna was married that year. Jeanie told me she met the man at her debutante ball. He was a cattle grower from Darr Creek area. A Hemming or Hemsworth or something. Had a large holding and was a little older. Jeanie was excited as she was 'coming out' later that year. I was sixteen then and so was she. The kisses had moved from my cheeks to my lips and we ignored the whistles and japes of Mr Milton, but she still came every day to the shop. I was her partner for the deb ball. I bought a suit and tie and good shoes. She looked like a bride and I told her one day I would make her mine."

"Why aren't boys like that these days? They just try and touch your boobs and stuff."

"Things were different then. There were plenty of those sorts of characters back then though too, I imagine."

"Can I have a scotch too, pops?"

"A single finger, hey?" I watch as she measures hers with a finger against the tumbler and remember the last drink I shared with Jeanie before I boarded that train to Brisbane in nineteen forty-two. She was eighteen then and we had promised her mother not to take things any further than kissing until we married. That had been an awkward conversation.

My last memory of her as I set off to war and perhaps my death was of her hand snaking down inside my pants as it had done a few times previously and her lips whispering against my ear, "Bring my little Clarry home safe." Perhaps that might be a thing to keep private from the tapes.

"So? Where were we, pops? You were madly in love with Grandma's sister. Sheesh. How did you end up ever having kids and grandkids? This is not what I expected at all."

"Life's a bit funny like that kiddo."

"So, where were we?"

"War."

"War?"

"Yup. I'd made a lot of money from my beans and cattle and was getting ready to ask Sergeant Sullivan for Jeanie's hand. Then conscription came and I didn't want to be seen as the sort to have to be drafted so I volunteered. Jeanie cried. Her mum cried. The Sergeant was proud but urged me not to be a hero. Then away I went. Seven stinking hot hours on a boring train to Brisbane. Off to the air-force. Training. The war."

"Where did you train?"

"Initially at EATS in Bankstown. It was a training scheme to feed pilots to the empire. I saw a little bit of flight in Malaya but was then sent off to Edinburgh."

"Did you ever kill anyone?"

I looked long and hard at my Granddaughter. I had. I had killed men. Until you do it, it's a thing that's deplorable. But in war, it's...

"Sixteen confirmed air kills. Three of those were bombers, so I don't know how many crew. Unknown ground casualties. Two German's on the way to Calais. It's not something I'm proud of, but it was my job."

"I can't believe I'm asking this, but is that how you lost your... um nut, your testicle?"

"Haha. Yes, it is kiddo. I was flying recon over Paris. There were troop movements suspected and tank reinforcements arriving. I was flying a specially built spitfire that had long range, high-altitude and photography capabilities. On my way home I dropped low over the Seine to avoid radar. It was a risky manoeuvre. If you got really low, you avoided coming to the attention of the intercepting Nazi planes, but you opened yourself up to antiaircraft guns. I took a hit and bailed out. Landed in a lovely French woman's back yard."

"So, you were okay?"

"Nope. Not at all. I had lost one testicle and a lot of blood. I was stuck up a tree in my parachute harness in occupied France while Nazi's scoured the area looking for the plane they'd shot down. The woman cut me down, hid me and cared for me until I was well enough to try and get home. She risked a hell of a lot by hiding me. They would have executed us both if I'd been found."

"What was she like?"

"She was an older woman. Thirty something. Her husband and son had been killed by the Nazi's. She fed me, hid me and taught me to swim."

"To swim? Didn't you learn that at school?"

"Not back then."

"Why swim?"

"I had to cross the channel somehow. I walked to Calais, paid a fisherman to smuggle me out as far as he would, then slipped overboard and swam toward the cliffs. It was a long shot, but it was my only chance. An English fisherman found me splashing about and took me ashore. Six hours I was swimming for. I was in a bit of a bad way."

"Geez. Six hours? I hate doing the four hundred even."

"Well, I had to try. Every moment I stayed with Renee, she was in danger and so was I."

"Renee? Like Mum?"

"Yes. She was an important person in my life and that's how your mother got her name."

"Coolies. Ah... Okay, so you got back to England. Do we get to the part about you and Grandma now?"

"Nope." I laugh at her rolled eyes. "Nope, this bit's about Jeanie still."

"She was in England?"

"Italy. Not far from Foggia where we had moved to support fighting in Italy. Mostly it was Americans but some of us were sent as well. The allies had taken most of the south and Jeanie was working in a hospital there. I didn't know it until I was shot, though."

"You were shot?"

"A little bit."

"How can you get shot a little bit? You either get shot or you don't, pops. How did you get shot?"

"I had a little tiff with a FW190. He'd been really bothering our airstrip for over a month. He'd sneak in all alone at fairly high altitude which was uncommon for the German planes then he'd drop down low and strafe our birds on the runway. I don't know how many planes we lost to him. So, a few of us were scrambled in rosters. I intercepted him one night. He was flying just below me and I followed him down. Just as he levelled out and started firing his twenty mil's I sent a burst into his engine."

"So, you shot him down?"

"They were pretty well armoured. I hit an oil line at least, I think. There was spray and he was good. It was the toughest dog fight I'd ever had. In the end I was firing my twenty mils at him because I'd exhausted my three-ohs. He was well hit. There was smoke and he was slowing. I'd taken a bunch of bullets to the tail and I was having trouble with my controls. He went vertical, stalled and sprayed me with lead before smashing into the air-field. I was able to land. Jeanie was a wreck but we rolled to a stop just before I passed out."

"Jeanie?"

"My plane. The Jeanie-belle. That was her last mission. And mine for some time. I woke later in a hospital in nearby Caserta. My shoulder was unusable. I'd taken a 7.9 ml round right through the joint. The smell was the worst. Not me. The hospital. Vinegar and someone had gangrene."