My Fortress

I sink my knees into the soft soil and press my face hard against the chicken wire, watching quietly as Mum hangs the last of the towels then takes Nicky’s hand and leads him up the steps. The back door clatters. That’s them inside now, I figure. They won’t be out again for hours. I turn and, leaving a snake trail behind me, I slither back through the dirt to the front of the house to see what’s going on there.

Down the middle of our street, a few kids saunter towards the school. They’re all barefoot, I notice, their thongs in hand or tangled around their upper arms. Their free hands wave an occasional Aussie salute.

The odd laugh or swear word bites the air. But there is nothing forced or urgent about these kids. The school siren sounding adds nothing to their stride. School it seems, can wait for them as well as for me.

Tomorrow, Mum has told me, is D-Day. She’ll be taking me over to get started. Until then, she says, I’m free. Great. I figure I can get down to business. I look down at the tidy arrangement before me.

My soldiers have a war on. It’s Napoleon’s armies versus the rest, what’s left of the British and American men I got for Christmas. But I’ve a sense. Even though there are plenty more Frenchmen than their foes, I’m fairly sure Napoleon is up against it. I study his wee man. He might have his arm raised like he’s about to charge, but that means nothing. One well-aimed shot from a Sherman, I reckon, will blow him to bits. The battle will be over before it’s begun. Whack! I flick the poor beggar into the dirt.

‘That's a stupid game,’ I hear.

The voice seems to come from nowhere. Then I notice a pair of skinny legs on the other side of the chicken wire. They’re a girl’s legs. I peer out. She’s silhouetted by the sun, but, by her height, I reckon she’s about my age. I give her a once over before replying.

‘It's a boy’s game,’ I say. ‘You're a girl.’

I shift around and offer her my back, but I can tell. There’s no way she’s leaving.

‘What's your name?’ she asks.

‘David,’ I say.

‘Mine’s Sam,’ she says.

‘That's a boy’s name,’ I say.

‘No, it's not,’ she says. ‘It's short for Samantha.’

I reinforce the little corporal’s army with some heavy armour. Maybe if just I ignore her.

‘Can I play with you?’ she says.

‘No,’ I say.

But she doesn’t listen. She just pushes the chicken wire aside and plonks herself down in the dirt.

‘It's dark in here,’ she says.

‘It's your eyes,’ I say. ‘They get used to it.’

‘So how come you're not at school?’ she says.

‘I haven’t started yet,’ I say. ‘I’m new.’

‘So am I,’ she says, picking up one of my soldiers.

I glower at her. How can I get rid of her?

‘They’re just like dolls,’ she says. ‘Only smaller.’

‘Leave them alone,’ I say. I snatch the figure from her grasp.

‘We've just moved here,’ she continues. ‘From Carnarvon.’

‘Us too,’ I say. ‘From Scotland.’

She shuffles closer, so close I can see the breakfast on her chin.

‘Want to play doctors and nurses?’ she says.

What? Who is this girl? I tell you. I’d rather be doing sums.

‘No one will see us in here,’ she smiles. She sits up and lifts her dress. My armies scatter as I bolt for the chicken wire.

‘You're weird,’ I say, squinting. ‘Why don't you go home?’

‘Because I want to play,’ she says.

She, too, is crawling out of the darkness.

‘I know what we can do,’ she says, dusting the dirt from her dress.

‘What's that?’ I say.

I fancy some adventuring in the bush across the road but … she seems to have better ideas.

‘Come with me,’ she says, grabbing my arm.

She leads me across the road and down two or three houses towards a vacant block. Covering the block, spread out in every direction, is a wild mess of Sturt Peas.

‘Aren't they pretty?’ says Sam, sitting among them.

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I say. To my mind, they’re more like an army. A regiment in sparking red. The Guards at Waterloo.

‘Sit down,’ she says, patting the ground next to her. ‘I'll show you.’

I hesitate, then sit. I watch as Sam picks one of the flowers.

‘You open them up like this,’ she says, peeling back the outer petals. ‘And you see in here?’

She shows me the heart of the flower. A few drops of liquid glisten.

‘It's called nectar,’ she says, and she puts the flower to her lips. With a loud slurp, she empties it. She repeats the motion, once, twice, three times. In a well-practices drill, she flings one dead soldier after another over her shoulder.

Try as I might to avoid it, I reckon I’m impressed. Perhaps I even like this skinny little thing. Her sudden smile encourages me. I open a flower and look inside.

‘Go ahead,’ says Sam. ‘It won't kill you. I've done it heaps of times.’

I bring the flower to my mouth and gently dip my tongue. Sam giggles.

‘Come on. You can do better than that,’ she says.

I feel my cheeks burn. I can’t be outdone by a girl. No way. I bite the bullet and swallow up the flower’s juice.

‘It's like honey,’ I say.

‘Only nicer,’ says Sam.

I taste another. It’s even sweeter than the first. Then another, and another, until all around us it really is a bloodbath. Dead redcoats everywhere. Maybe it’s not Waterloo after all, I think. Maybe it’s Yorktown.

‘Can I be your girlfriend?’ asks Sam.

‘Sure,’ I say, hardly listening.

‘Will you let me play with your soldiers?’

‘If you want,’ I say, my mind on better things.

‘Will you play doctors and nurses with me?’ she says.

Yeah, anything’s possible, I think, and I drink once more.