Eventual Poppy Day

1

Signing up

1914

MAURICE

The old shed shook as if the corrugated-iron sheets might tear apart and fly off in the driving wind and rain. The tin roof’s performance competed with the rumbling north-coast sky as Maurice almost fell through the doorway of the shed, grateful to see his father sitting at the rickety table on an even more rickety stool. Michael Roche looked up from the old ledger he was hunched over. His father seemed calm enough in the glow of the hurricane lamps that lit up an interior crowded with farm gear and hay bales, and Maurice resolved that the half-empty whiskey bottle on the table would not deter him. Not tonight!

‘I want to join up!’

‘And you’ve come out here to tell me something I already know?’

‘To ask you something, Dad. The paperwork. You know I need a letter from you before I can do it. I don’t want to wait any longer. I need it now.’

His mother had been grim-faced that evening when Maurice came in from town, and she’d avoided his questions about his father’s whereabouts. He knew exactly where to look for him, though. This shed, a fair walk from the homestead, from time to time was Maurice’s hideaway too.

His father had not discovered his cache there, and he knew the old man would be unperturbed if he did since he had his own, though Michael’s was mainly whiskey. Maurice kept his handsome wooden box, crammed with paints and luxurious stiff paper, out of sight. They had all been given him by the aunts his mother referred to as their ‘rich relatives’, who’d taken a particular liking to this quiet and more thoughtful of their brother’s sons. His teacher had assured them that the lad showed great promise with his drawings. This was not so surprising since their own father had been a painter. ‘Mainly landscapes and mainly watercolours,’ Aunt Tot announced in her authoritative way, ‘and very good they are too. So you see, Jane and I want to make sure that you, Maurice, have every opportunity.’

But he soon knew that his paintings perplexed his aunts. They didn’t say they regretted the gift outright but were at pains to point out artists they admired when an opportunity arose. Their own father, Claude, of course. Aunt Tot, after studying one of Maurice’s paintings, would say encouragingly, ‘Couldn’t you try a landscape, Moss? Heaven knows we live in God’s own country here as our dear papa so often said. And we have his work to prove it.’ Aunt Jane, always the echo, might add sanctimoniously, ‘We do! Oh we do!’ Aunt Tot had even asked him, ‘Couldn’t you paint more like that Sydney artist Mr Archibald?’ moving a little further afield with her knowledge of art. And no he couldn’t, or didn’t wish to anyhow.

So his sister and confidante, Katie, became almost his sole critic and admirer. His mother had hung some of his paintings at Katie’s insistence, but in the darker corners of the house. Close as the two were, Maurice had not told his sister of his intention that night before weaving his way through the storm across familiar paddocks to the shed. He knew she’d be as upset as their mother, but he simply had to change his father’s mind.

‘You’re seventeen.’ His mother had been terribly angry when Maurice had first put forward the idea of volunteering all those months ago, when men all over Australia were rushing to join up. ‘Empire or not it’s a war on the other side of the world, fighting people who’ve done you no wrong! Why are you in such a hurry to get there?’ He and his brothers had read and re-read the posters going up all over town and Aubrey, being twenty, had signed up and gone pretty well straight off, despite their mother’s strong objections. And brother Will at nineteen was going next.

Those posters made a man feel pretty weak, Maurice and Will had agreed. Cooee — Won’t YOU come? with a picture of a rugged Aussie soldier inviting them, as if to a holiday. Or the more perturbing It’s nice in the surf, but what about the men in the trenches? It really did feel weak to go on herding and dipping, milking cows and breeding horses, clearing land and fencing paddocks, let alone hanging about in town with the boys, when they could be off and away and helping the war effort.

‘But I’ll be eighteen in a few months’ time, and it’ll be all over if I wait any longer.’

‘Your father still has to give his permission and he won’t.’ His mother slapped the teapot onto its stand as if this were the last word on it. ‘We need you here!’

But Maurice had seen dozens of the lads he knew in the Kyogle–Casino area sign up in the Lismore recruitment hall, his older brother among them, and march off in jubilation to their training and the troop ships that would take them to an adventure on the other side of the world. He’d heard South Australia had set a record for volunteering, but New South Wales wouldn’t be far behind if the lads he knew had their way. There were marches through country towns gathering any man who’d go on to Brisbane to be trained, the town flags waving and bands playing, the lads eager to offer themselves up to the Empire. Everyone was saying it would be a short war — maybe six months to a year — and what an adventure for a young fellah. He had to get there too. That was all he knew.

The would-be soldier brothers Will and Maurice had beamed at each other when Aubrey made his joining-up announcement at a Sunday roast lunch. Aunt Tot reassured their mother: ‘It’s a fine thing, wouldn’t you agree, Emily, for your boys to do their bit? To join the fight for king and country — to fight for our freedom? We all feel so proud of them.’

‘We are already free,’ was his mother’s wry comment, but even Emily knew it was no use glaring at Tot. Could the childless aunts ever really know the wrench of a son going to war? She knew well enough she was the one out of step with the sentiment of the town, in fact of the nation, that the boys, all of them, should do their bit, and she didn’t care if her in-laws knew it too.

‘For the moment,’ was Tot’s quick rejoinder, placing her knife and fork ceremoniously on either side of the cluster of pink roses that patterned her plate and all the others she’d bestowed on the family as Sunday best, adding, ‘You know what it means to be part of the British Empire, don’t you?’ She didn’t wait for any answer, her handsome face intent with the self-righteousness of what should not need saying to Emily or to any Australian worth her salt.

They were round the huge wooden dining table, set with more care than usual because it was a Sunday lunch with the aunts present. Katie had gone to the trouble of filling the large pitcher from the kitchen with wattle blooms for the sideboard, despite the fact some older folk round here said wattle inside only brought bad luck. But Aunt Tot and Aunt Jane loved wattle inside and out, and had told her they loved her flower arrangements. The curtains had been drawn back, more to hide the rents in the now rotting lace than to let in the light, and the bare windows revealed the garden with the central orange tree and, beyond that, the green rolling hills with remnant lines of gum trees.

‘It means of course they will defend us if ever we’re attacked in this part of the world,’ Aunt Tot went on.

The boys knew not to dispute what their father said about war and his sons’ involvement in it. They knew that Aubrey leaving abruptly the way he had, as soon as volunteers to the Australian Imperial Force had been called for, was a sore point with him. It was not even discussed, as all important things usually were, from seasonal duties to buying and selling cattle, from raising horses to talks at the Hall of Arts on the rare occasions Michael or any of the older boys had fancied dressing up and going to town to hear some city bloke blather on. Plenty of talk about forward plans. But then Aubrey had just announced it, one evening at the table, as if war were a boxing match at the next town.

‘You’re a fool then, Aubrey!’ Emily had blazed after her gasp of dismay at the news. And now Will would leave, not to mention Maurice champing at the bit. It meant there would more often be terse words between his parents; their father’s disappearances for hours or even whole days at a time would increase in frequency, commented upon by Emily with only a few grim words. Emily, slight of form, always straight-backed and variously sharp-tongued or unexpectedly kind, was clear on her attitude to the Empire’s demands; this sweeping up of all the young men and especially those who worked the land and longed for a more exciting life. Of course she knew of those who signed up merely to have a job that paid. That was another thing entirely. In an odd way she blamed Michael for their sons’ eagerness to serve. For having sisters who were so enthusiastic.

Right now the milder Aunt Jane addressed her sister soothingly, ‘That’s right, Tot, of course! But the boys can’t all go and join up. Got to keep the home fires burning here too, eh, Michael?’ She pointedly looked towards her brother, Michael, silent at the head of the table. ‘Your father needs help to keep the farm running, you know!’ This to Charlie and Tom who she knew full well were still at school and well under age.

Will had winked at Maurice across the table but flushed because his father had seen it, and his father had winced at the thought of more absent sons and the ones left behind missing school to help him farm.

‘I love Empire Day. We get a half-day holiday!’ Charlie remarked, breaking the tension, and the awkward moment passed.

So Maurice had been biding his time. Reading everything he could get his hands on. Volunteerism was fine for now but there could even be a referendum on conscription, the prime minister had said, eager to back up the British forces once Australia had joined what they were calling the Great War! It had been a hotly discussed topic at the local pub, where cards, billiards and dart games these days were peppered with talk of nationalism. ‘How lucky are we, lads, to fight the good fight for king and country? And let any bastard try to take issue with it!’

And last night, on the eve of his departure to Brisbane, one of his best friends, Patrick, had given him hope with some sympathetic advice that had sent him through the storm tonight.

‘Your old man told mine at the horse sales last week he knows it’ll only be a matter of time for you, mate. So he expects you to put the pressure on! Get on with it. We could find ourselves in the battle over there fighting side by side. Just think about that!’ Patrick’s eyes shone with an excitement that caused a pang of jealousy: his smaller, milder friend was off on a thrilling adventure thanks to his consenting father.

‘I want to join up soon as I can, Dad!’

Michael Roche looked up at his son, drenched despite his coat, face flushed despite the cold, still holding the lamp aloft. Already his wet dark hair was springing into curls round his face, and his blue eyes were filled with a youthful eagerness Michael could only dimly remember.

‘Ahh, Moss.’ He looked back at the ledger and sighed. ‘Those cattle of Wilson’s have just about saved the day, you know. He wants them on agistment here again and that will help. And old man Nicholson’s asked too. But I don’t know if I should tell your mother how bad a year it’s going to be again.’

‘What about the corn?’

‘Market’s flooded and the price of corn —’

His father was still sober, so Maurice knew he should just get on with it. ‘Dad, I spoke to Paddy tonight before he left and he said all I need is that letter signed by you …’

Now his father frowned. ‘We’ve been over and over this, Maurice. It might be brave or noble, your intention. Dare say it’s both! But we need you here, lad, now Aubrey’s gone and Will’s to go soon. It’s enough! Your mother would be upset if I signed just now …’ But his voice was not convincing.

‘Tommy Thomson put his age up in Sydney and got away with it — his sister told me he’s in Egypt now. And you’ve got Tom and Chas still here to help. And, Dad, I really want to serve.’

Michael Roche looked at the eager young face of his son, anticipating what was to come.

‘I will go whatever happens, Dad, you know that.’

But Michael felt he had to put up some sort of fight. The newspapers never tired of telling them it was their duty to let able-bodied sons go to fight for the mighty Empire they were part of, but there was Emily’s attitude to consider. And for that matter something in him didn’t entirely fall for the go-to-war propaganda sweeping through the place — not just the posters, the editorials, the addresses from the pulpit, but the pressure from the townsfolk themselves: the heartfelt poetry, the war songs, and the church bazaars all raising money for the war effort, and the new Win the War League that he’d failed to join.

‘You might think it beats milking cows and fencing paddocks, but war’s a terrible thing, Moss. Such a terrible thing. And it’s bad over there. We can read between the lines of Aub’s letters. It’s no picnic for him in Egypt.’

‘I know that!’

‘Bob Freeland’s lad lost a leg, son. He’s still in hospital over there, and you know we’ll never know what happened to the Harrison boy, nor a lot of others come to that …’ His voice trailed off. ‘So many boys fallen already and that’s just from the north coast. They don’t exactly tell you about that.’

‘I know, Dad! But the only thing I’d lose is my hat. We’re needed and I should go and hundreds are signing up for it. I’m good with a gun, the best shot round here, other than Katie that is! And I know I’ll take to the training. I’m tip-top fit. You say yourself I’m strong as a horse and I am. I’ll be right as rain, just like Aubrey. I know I will.’

‘It’s still months off to your birthday you know.’ But Maurice had heard it, the acquiescence in his voice.

‘They need fifty thousand more men to form units for the expeditionary forces, that’s what the poster said, and that’s a helluva lot of men. And I’m able bodied. Fit the bill. Thirty-six-inch chest and five foot six. Some of the blokes have been turned down, poor sods. I’ve read all the requirements over and over and I’m fit for it. Ready for it! They won’t take just anyone, you know!’ Maurice’s voice was confident. ‘Though funnily enough when Freddy Thomas was rejected he just walked round the corner and went back into the Lismore Hall and they took him, second time round.’

Michael smiled despite himself. The lad was a picture of health and strength, standing straight and tall as he could, already playing the exemplary soldier. He looked at his boy and felt an awful wrench at the thought of another son …

‘It won’t be for long, Dad. They say another year at the most and very likely just six months. Come 1915 it’ll be all over.’

‘Perhaps, lad, perhaps.’ Michael looked down at the book on the table, pouring himself a drink in the tumbler at his elbow as he did so, which he drank in one gulp.

Maurice looked at his father, the untidy beard and the already glazed sad eyes and yes he knew it would be a night of it here with the whiskey bottle again, the ledger only an excuse should anyone venture out. What had happened to the spritely, happy man whistling round the farm, so often now in gloomy moods that weren’t necessarily about the war, and Aubrey out of there as soon as he could, and Will on his way? Maurice wanted right then and there to give the old man a hug but could not, instead standing and waiting for the talk or preferably the dismissal he knew would come.

And for a moment, with that rush of love for him, Maurice wanted to go back to the cosy room of his boyhood where his father read or better still told the old stories to them all before good-night hugs. Poetry, especially bush ballads, was the big thing with all of them but especially Kate, his only daughter, whom he openly adored, and she implored him for it. And who could read a poem the way his dad could, and make a shiver of laughter or contentment or a shiver of something else go up and up your spine? Those Irish ones, never letting them forget their Irish roots, his favourite.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

Or the more rollicking Australian ones. Emily, in a good mood, could join in with and often out-quote him. They were good times when that happened.

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed round

That the colt from old Regret had got away,

And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,

So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.

But later when Emily had taken Kate kitchen-wards for some chore or other, helping Hannah with the dishes or butter churning, for the older boys it would be stories from the collection of leather-bound books sitting fatly alongside the family Bible in the sitting room. And he’d run his hand down the handsomely bound books, for it was a good collection that they knew he prized, stopping at the Bible and teasing them with, ‘Where were we? Exodus chapter ten, wasn’t it?’

‘Nah, Dad, not those. More Oliver, Dad!’ Maurice would say, for they never tired of hearing the deeds of up-against-it boys the likes of Oliver Twist or David Copperfield, difficult though the language could be.

‘Or Rider Haggard and the mines!’ Will or Aubrey would ask.

And his father’s voice could boom out the parts of different characters or be light and lilting as with the poetry, and he’d be an avid listener, even when he couldn’t understand much of the story. Maurice remembered how his mother would often refer to Michael as ‘too much of a bookish man to be a good farmer’, in tones of disapproval when she needed some job done. He knew that he and Kate shared this love, that excitement when brown paper parcels arrived of the squarish shape, postmarked from Sydney or even Melbourne, and definitely not farming implements.

And then latterly, when Aubrey had been seen off at Kyogle station, despite his upset about it, Maurice recalled the patient way his father had fetched the globe of the world explaining to the younger Charlie and Tommy and to him for that matter just where their brother Aubrey might go, in Egypt somewhere, or in Europe somewhere.

‘It’s a world war, you know, worse luck! Think of that — a world war!’

The cluster of countries that signified Europe seemed nothing more than coloured blobs, as Michael’s finger traced the places across the English Channel from Great Britain. They knew scads of history, much more about Great Britain than they did about Australia, their own country, which was considered to have very little history at all.

‘So has your teacher said why Australian boys are expected to go?’

‘Because we’re lucky to be part of the Empire,’ Charlie had parroted happily.

‘Yeah, we’re allies!’ Tommy said.

‘Did he tell you that an assassination of someone called Archduke Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo sparked the outbreak of this war?’ Michael asked the boys.

‘Yeah he did — but how come?’ Tommy asked.

‘Things go back way further than that event. Rivalries between big powers in Europe. Mr Wickham will probably explain better than I would. The Brits are allies with Belgium so they’ve come into the war because the Germans attacked Belgium.’

‘Will you let Moss go?’ Charlie asked ingenuously. ‘And us, if it’s still going when we turn eighteen? I’d like to try a bayonet against the Hun!’

‘And I’d join the Cavalry!’ Tommy said.

‘Well you can both go and feed the horses right here and right now for starters,’ Michael said.

Later his father had talked to Maurice about treaties between countries that to his mind had dragged them into the war ‘willy-nilly’ as he liked to call it. Australia, New Zealand, Canada, South Africa, India …

He’d overheard voices raised against the patriotic aunts, his father unrelenting. ‘I know we rely on Britain for trade and we owe a lot for our way of life here, but I’m not sure we owe our youth. We should be standing on our own feet now, for God’s sake, Tot! Our army is even called the Australian Imperial Force.’ His voice was heavy with disapproval. Maurice knew this kind of talk would not do at the pub or anywhere else in town, so maybe it was best Michael was at least keeping it in the family.

‘But, Michael, surely you yourself would be prepared to fight for freedom?’ Tot had asked rather coldly.

‘You know very well, Tot, that I’d be prepared to fight for my family if it came to it. Of course I would. If war comes to these shores, and God forbid it ever will, I’d fight. But you also know, Robertina, I think we are being dragged into this war willy-nilly. And I fear for our young men and the Allies. Just numbers as I see it —’

He could hear Aunt Tot draw breath, followed by Aunt Jane.

When there were conversations such as these round the table he well understood that any discussion of his joining up would have to wait until later.

The rain was thrumming all round them but a silence in the shed eventually made Maurice say quietly, ‘Dad?’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll think about it then,’ Michael said heavily, looking down at the ledger again. ‘Now leave me be.’

Surely it was approval, wasn’t it? He’d be able to sign up!

Though he was sorry for his father, Maurice felt like a young colt as he re-crossed the paddocks, ready to jump and prance despite the gathering wind. ‘I’m off to war, by Jove!’ he said out loud, but well before he went indoors. And his heart fairly sang with the idea of doing his bit, as the aunts put it, of doing his duty, and best of all of seeing places he’d otherwise not have the ghost of a chance of ever seeing in Egypt or in Europe or anywhere out of Australia come to that. And of being with a host of Australian lads dreaming the same dream, fighting for what was right. Of course.

Maurice knew it would be weeks, maybe even months, before he could get there and he hoped against hope there was time to see some of the action. At precisely the same moment Michael Roche poured himself another goodly measure of whiskey, and thought of the eager young eyes of his third son, and hoped for the exact opposite.

2

In love with India

2012

OLIVER

Oliver stroked her cheek with the feathery end of the wiry grass stalk as they lay in the shadow of the sand hills somewhere behind Malabar Beach. It was in get-away moments like these that Oliver knew he could tell India all kinds of things, and even answer questions like she’d just asked: ‘What’s up, Ollie? Spill it!’ She was changeable, and he could rarely guess her mood; right now he wanted to answer, ‘Nothing much wrong when I’m with you like this,’ but said instead, ‘Everything, I guess. Home, last year of school stuff, my parents, my little sister. You know, and this spooky feeling I get.’

‘But it’s not any worse, is it?’ It was strange that, though India was relatively new to his school, he had told her after they’d worked out they lived in the same Maroubra street that he got depressed pretty badly and once he’d had to go to a hospital for a while.

‘No, it’s not exactly worse. See, first up I get some pictures I can’t shake. And this fear thing makes it hard to breathe. Like there’s a big hole in the ground opening up and I know I can just step inside and —’

‘And what?’

‘And you know —’

‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t know at all.’

‘You know, it’d be the end.’

‘What — of you?’

‘No more thinking, thinking.’

‘So now you tell me you do actually think?’ she joked and he laughed but she was taking in the expression on his face …

She leaned forwards and kissed him on the lips, and then impetuously rolled down the sand hill with him following, and they got up laughing and gritty, shaking themselves like sand creatures.

‘That’s shit!’ she said, taking his hand.

‘What?’

‘You in a great big hole. You really mean that?’

‘Yeah, sometimes when I walk by myself. Like this hillside could open up too and the hole — Oh, it’s gross! But I could step in. Weird, eh?’ He still couldn’t quite believe he could speak so easily about this with her.

She squeezed his hand. ‘You won’t, Oliver! Just make up your mind you won’t.’

‘Not when I’m with you, Indie, never when I’m with you.’

They trailed along the beach. Not a soul in sight. There was a fold in the dark rock, not quite sheltered from the tides because the sand was cool and wettish even a long way inside. It had a low arch they could crawl under and a bed of ploughed sand they could lie on. When he tried to speak she shooshed him. They kissed again and again and when she pulled away he could first only watch in awe in the dimness of their cave as she took off her T-shirt, and submit when she took off his.

‘Here, we should lie on our jeans, Ollie. Sand’s a bit gritty,’ she said pulling hers off, just as if she did this kind of thing every day under an arch of rock on a bed of sand at a tiny miraculous beach with the glistening sea making its music nearby. He followed suit, his heart thudding so loudly he was scared she could hear it. And when they began kissing again it seemed to him everything in the world was swept away except her and the moment and this perfect place and her perfect body under his.

They lay a long time in each other’s arms afterwards. He’d like to paint her now, so quiet and still for a moment. He’d try to memorise it, her, this moment, her shoulder white marble, her breasts and the sweep of her body a sculpture, to sketch it when he went home.

‘I really want to ask you something,’ he whispered, for unaccountably Tom Oatley’s face floated into sight, Tom her new university friend, bright and handsome, Tom with India, like a painting itself, hanging there taunting him in the rocky shelter. And he had to reassure himself. ‘Indie, are we — does this —?’

‘I like you, Oliver, course I do. But don’t spoil it,’ was all she answered.

And the hole in the ground opened up again, brimming with fears about her this time. And the lump in his throat was like when his father left but this time he’d never swallow it. Was she just being kind to him or what? He knew she liked him. She liked him a lot, but this — this was different. He’d told her about his dad always leaving and boomeranging back, except the last time. It’d been more than a year now, and he’d practically stopped thinking about him at all.

He looked at India slipping the T-shirt back over her head, and he wanted to grab onto her, shake her even, make her say something like Yes, yes you are, we are something, of course we are, but already she was rearranging the rest of her clothes and humming.

And it seemed like something had turned off in her so that there was no space for him to say anything meaningful about them, about this new making love, about feeling anything, even happiness. So he was silent as he dressed. They crawled out of their shelter and blinked in the sunlight.

‘Way over there,’ she indicated with a sweep of her hand, ‘is a golf course and a rifle range.’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘I’ve walked a few bush tracks right to La Perouse from here. There’s some concrete bunker things built in World War II, I think. Fat lot of good trying to defend our coastline.’

‘I didn’t know Australia tried to defend its coastline. I guess my parents were kids in Hungary at the time.’

‘Really?’

‘I’ve told you about my great-grandparents, right? You know they died in camps in Germany.’

He didn’t like to contradict her and say she had never said much about this at all, only that her family had to change their name because her dad said people couldn’t get their tongue round Bozansky.

‘Right, yeah. I’ve heard a bit about the wars at home — Dorothea’s a talker. Though of course she’s more into World War I, generally,’ he said.

He knew India had liked his great-grandmother the few times they’d talked, so he went on. ‘She’s got stuck on Uncle Maurice’s tales of grit and guts on the Western Front. He was her brother, though she never met him. I’m kind of named after him. Well, Maurice is my second name. God knows why, because I hate all that stuff, Anzac Day and all that! You can’t shut her up when she gets going.’

‘But that’s the beauty of a family story, isn’t it?’

‘Not really to me, and not much of a family now anyway.’

‘That’s not true. Poppy’s adorable. And not annoying, like lots of little sisters.’

‘I guess so.’ There was no way he was going to talk about Poppy’s silence, or how her illness had been his fault.

‘And Dorothea’s amazing. You said she’s almost a hundred. I’d like to be sharp as that when I’m old.’

India old was simply impossible to imagine.

They stood a while, surveying the ocean, unusually calm, and she turned to him he thought to exact a kiss but instead she said, ‘Tell me something she told you about this uncle you’re named after.’

Surely she didn’t want to hear about some soldier boy all that time ago for God’s sake when there was so much else to talk about? ‘Hey, Indie, I don’t know that much. Do you really want to know?’

‘Not if you don’t want to tell. But like Tom says, it’s good hearing real stories of people who’ve been through wars, you know like your, what? Great-great-uncle? It helps you see the big picture.’

‘What big picture? You sound a bit like a teacher saying that.’ He wanted to laugh off this new serious tone, or just stop talking and get back to touching and stuff.

‘But I think that too.’

Maybe she sat round talking politics over at the Bodens’, or, worse thought, with Tom; they certainly didn’t at the Days’ place. And more warning bells at that name: Tom Oatley. Political Science, Sydney University. She was too much in