Billy Mack's War by James Roy Page B

shipshape for Ma and Dad’s return. On that last day she was attempting to make a cake and a roast and a pudding, all the while trying to watch the twins and keep the house in some kind of order. I was grateful, then, when she handed me a shopping list and asked me to go into town for her.
    â€˜Not in school today, Billy?’ Mr Dalhousie the grocer asked me.
    â€˜No, sir,’ I said. ‘My dad’s coming home today.’
    â€˜So Freddy McAuliffe’s finally coming back, eh? Yes, I’d heard that.’ He scooped out some sugar into a paper bag and made a kind of clicking noise with his tongue as he adjusted the weights on the scales. Then he took his pencil from behind his ear and wrote some numbers on a scrap of brown paper. ‘It’ll be good to see him around here again, top bloke like him.’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ I replied.
    â€˜Must have missed him, eh? Most of us thought he was dead, if you want the truth. I can tell you that now, can’t I?’ Mr Dalhousie put a line through a couple of items on the list. ‘Still no soap flakes, tell your grandmother. Tea we can do, if you’ve got your coupon handy.’
    I passed over the coupons for the tea and the sugar.
    â€˜Is that all for today, Billy?’ he asked as he crossed off the tea. ‘I’ll just stick it on the account, all right?’
    â€˜Yes, sir,’ I said.
    â€˜Wait up,’ said Mr Dalhousie as I turned to go out the door. He went to the big square biscuit barrel, took off the lid and picked out a few of the broken pieces of biscuit, which he put in a small paper bag for me. ‘These are for you,’ he said with a wink. ‘And tell your dad to come and say gidday, won’t you, just as soon as he’s feeling up to it?’
    â€˜Yes, sir, I will,’ I said.
    Nan’s mood was no better by the time I got back to the house, but I had chores to do anyway so I made myself scarce. My first job was to clean out the mare’s stable. I was just coming out with a full bucket when I heard a voice behind me.
    â€˜Hey, Billy-o.’
    I turned around. Stan Whittaker was standing outside the door, leaning against the wall and smoking. ‘Oh, gidday, Stan,’ I said.
    â€˜What, no “Mr Whittaker”? Become the big man on the farm and suddenly you call grown-ups by their first names, eh? That how it works?’
    â€˜Sorry, Mr Whittaker,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think.’
    â€˜No harm done,’ he said. He dropped his cigarette in the dirt and ground it out with his boot. ‘It’s just manners, that’s all.’
    â€˜Yeah, sorry, Mr Whittaker,’ I repeated. ‘Uh, Granddad’s not here, and Nan’s a bit busy. I think she’s around —’
    â€˜Your granddad’s in Devonport, yeah? Mum coming home tonight, I hear. That right? With your dad, yeah?’
    â€˜Yeah, that’s right,’ I said.
    â€˜How about I come over tomorrow, say gidday to your old man? Been a while.’
    â€˜He might need a few days,’ I said. ‘Just to kind of get used to the place again. Maybe next week —’
    â€˜Yeah, I reckon I’ll see him tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And there’s one more thing.’
    â€˜What’s that?’ I asked.
    â€˜Tell your granddad to be nice, eh? Tell him I’m only being neighbourly.’
    â€˜Why can’t you tell him that yourself?’ I asked.
    He spoke slowly, like I was thick or something. ‘Because it’s better coming from you. Right then. Bye, Bill y-o.’ He turned and sauntered away with a quick glance towards the house.
    I thought no more about Stan Whittaker. I was far too busy helping Nan get everything totally right for the Big Arrival, as she kept calling it. I wanted to ask her why it was that after a week or so of tidying, cleaning and re-cleaning, she should decide on the very last afternoon to do it all over again.