The Savage. Part 3 of 8.

Bob returned to Merle briefly in 1944. They enjoyed a frenzied fortnight together before he travelled north again; this time to Far North Queensland to teach jungle warfare to the latest recruits. He only returned for good when Japan was destroyed and the war was over.

Merle met his troop train at Roma Street Station. She recalled the steam and coal smoke and the crush of kaki. Slouch hats were everywhere. Bob jumped from the still moving train, dropped his duffle bag and embraced her. He kissed her and said something she could not hear over the shouts of woman and children and the screeching whistle of the steam engine.

They moved in to her parents’ home and saved. Bob initially took a series of manual jobs: factory worker, wharfie, labourer. He would start early and return home late and exhausted. Fatigue he said, helped get the war out of his system. Helped him to sleep. Merle was patient and trusting. Soon enough Bob settled down to banking. Merle’s bank manager father helped with that. And when the time was right he gave his daughter and son-in-law a generous house deposit. He negotiated an exceptional bank loan on their behalf and their life after the war was under way. They moved in to their Dornoch Terrace home in 1948. Although Merle didn’t appreciate it at the time, it was then that the trouble with Bob began.

The house warming had been a happy affair. The big, rambling Queenslander overflowed with family and friends. Merle’s parents were there, proud of their daughter, their only child. Any reservations they had had over her youthful marriage had evaporated as they observed her loyalty to Bob during his long absence, and their obvious love for one another when he had returned. Their concerns over his initial work choices left them also, as he settled down to work with the bank. Her father was convinced that with his tutelage Bob too would rise to be the manager of his own branch. But for Merle, looking back, the seeds of discontent were sown on that blustery winter’s day.

Bob had built a stone and concrete BBQ to one side of the veranda. It was the size of a small car with an enormous iron hot plate and grill and plenty of storage for firewood underneath. Its size and construction quickly earned it the nickname ‘the bunker’. Bob fuelled it with the hardwood frame and weather boards salvaged from the dilapidated garden shed he had demolished. The wood smoke curled up to the roofline where the wind got hold of it and tugged it away. The big tribe of relatives and friends ate and drank throughout the afternoon. It was evening before most of the guests had left. Only Jack, one of Bob’s army mates remained. Merle brought her husband a cardigan and left the men on the cool, darkening veranda. She cleared up the empty beer bottles and set to work on the plates and cutlery. It was after eight o’clock when she rejoined the men. She brought a shandy for herself. The men were already drunk.

 ‘You’ve done alight for yourselves Merle,’ Jack said as she approached.

‘Got yourself a nice possie here. Good view of town. Handy to work. Nice clean street.’

‘Jack’s been admirin’ the garden,’ said Bob.

Merle shook her head.

‘You’re kidding of course? There’s nothing to it. Bob won’t let me plant anything bigger than a rose bush. What I’d really like is Frangipani at the front and Hibiscus at the sides and below the veranda. That’s not going to spoil the view.’

‘I told you Merle, it’s not about the view. I just don’t like to be closed in. I had enough of that in bloody New Guinea. It’s not good being closed in. I like to see what’s around me.’

‘Well what about out the front. Don’t you want a little privacy screening from the street.’

‘God no. A clear view out there is more important than ever. It’s good to know who’s coming down the front path. That right Jack?’

Jack nodded then took a swig of beer. He swept his beer in an arch that encompassed the city.

‘Good line of sight out there. Cleared ground and a bloody commanding view over ya neighbour’s chook pen.’

Jack grinned. 'Good killing field alright.'

Bob nodded. ‘And what about the front Jack?’

Jack grinned. ‘Good killing field alright. Clear across your front yard to the letter box and footpath. You could hold off a platoon with one bloody Bren gun I reckon.’

‘Christ Jack, with two Brens and a box of bombs we could hold the place against all comers for a week. A Bren in that corner to sweep the back yard and the Eastern side; that would keep the Bradshaw’s chooks in check. Another Bren in the sun room would take care of the postie, gas man, metre readers and salesmen.’

‘Not to mention God botherers.’

‘The first to bloody go.’ The men laughed.

Bob smiled at his wife. ‘That my dear, is why we need to keep the garden in check.’ Merle shook her head at the drunken men. She returned her glass to the kitchen and retired to bed.

To be continued. Next time, Bob’s back yard was a place made for battle.