Margaret Pearce

 

Home and Country

"No self respecting country will take that sort of insult," George Jones announced.

The residents of the peaceful cluster of houses were in a ferment as they gathered to discuss the implications of the last trade agreement.

"It's been years since they've gone this far," someone argued. "Will it affect us?"

"'Another flag to salute, I suppose," George said with a snort.

"It's going to be televised tonight," Mrs. Jones said. "So we'll all know what's happening."

There were murmurs of agreement. It was just on dusk, and the solar lights were glowing their accumulated sunlight on the streets, courtyards and spreading parklands. The residents drifted off into their homes

George prepared dinner, and Mrs. Jones returned to her spinning. There was the squeal of the solar powered car as it braked outside, and their daughter Jenny rushed in.

"Did you hear about the war?" she gabbled. "The trade talks have broken down. What's going to happen about my job?"

"Nothing," Mr. Jones said as he set the table with his homemade bread and homegrown strawberry jam, and dished up vegetables grown in the communal patch. "Your three days a week are quite safe. You work in a public service department and the country has to function regardless of who wins."

Jenny wasn't listening. "I've waited years for this job," she moaned. "And I only have to pay a day and a half for my three days work. What if someone else can afford to pay for my job?"

"Not many people have your qualifications," her father reminded her. "Stop fussing, and where's your brother?"

"Rostered for six hours community work this afternoon." Mrs. Jones stopped spinning, stood up and stretched. "He queued for hours to be chosen."

"He'll be late," his father predicted. "And reheating ruins my cooking."

"That's his problem," Jenny said. "Let's get dinner over so we can watch the war. Is it being held in the usual place?"

"The new Olympic Stadium," her father explained. "The countries take turns to stage a war. It should be exciting this time, with three countries participating."

"What I like is the opening ceremony when all the participants receive their medals for bravery. It is so stirring," Jenny said.

"Stop eating so fast," her father scolded. "I went to a lot of trouble with that asparagus and cauliflower cheese. Anyway, there would be no point giving them their medals posthumously."

They finished dinner. The fire flickered cheerily, and the strips of accumulated sunlight in the domes ceiling lit the battered lounge suite, spinning wheel, the pile of wool in one corner, the half finished chest of drawers in the other, and the exercise bike that powered the television set.

"Have you heard about the war?" John Jones asked as he rushed into the room. "Isn't it exciting! I swapped half an hour off my roster to be home in time to watch. Some of the kids helping to sweep the streets aren't even interested! They reckon it won't make a patch of difference."

"Of course it will," his mother replied. "Don't know what the younger generation is coming to! No pride or sense of patriotism."

"I'll eat before I power the television set," John said.

While he ate, Mr. and Mrs. Jones put their heads together over their homework and Jenny sanded down the cabinet.

"I won't ever be as good a cook as you are Dad," John said at last. "Sure you want me to take a turn in the kitchen next week?"

"Get on the bike, it's already eight thirty," was the only answer.

John swung on to the bike and started pedalling. The television glowed into light, showing waiting dignitaries, and the television cameras covering the big arena.

"We're going to miss the quiz program," Mrs. Jones complained. "I heard that the big prize is six weeks work in the state nurseries, and you don't have to pay a cent for the privilege."

"Shush, Mary," George warned. "There's a war on, and we all have to make some sacrifices."

The beaming and excited face of the announcer took over the screen. "Well viewers," he almost sang. "It has come to war, and you can see behind me the big arena. The bravery medals have been awarded. We have been permitted a few minutes time with the politicians who represent our country, and the group of cartels who are so patriotically behind our politicians."

"Isn't this exciting," Jenny burst out. "Can I have some of your homemade fudge, please Dad?"

George passed the tin of fudge over. The screen faded as John paused from pedalling to grab a share of the fudge. There were indignant protests so he pedalled until the screen glowed back into life.

The dignitaries in their expensively cut suits were making speeches, faces red with indignation as they denounced the unreasonable policies of the opposing countries.

"You greedy pig, John," Jenny burst out. "We've missed the opening speech. Now we don't know what the war is about."

The camera panned to the group of men representing the cartels. They lounged at ease, their faces grim with contempt. The announcer could only coax one of them to speak.

"I can't see what the fuss is about," the cartel man said in a bored tone. "We are perfectly within our rights. Our policies are all covered under international law. It can not be proved that what we have done is illegal or unlawful."

There was break for commercials, and John took the opportunity to grab some more fudge.

"Get back on the bike," Jenny scolded. "You don't want us to miss all the action do you?"

John shrugged, climbed back on the bike and pedalled. The screen brightened. The dignitaries were shaking hands and walking to their own sides of the arena. The cartels' groups saluted each other from across the arena.

"Which is our country, Dad?" Jenny asked.

"I think the men in the grey suits. One side is wearing navy suits and the other brown tweed suits."

The big old cannon was loaded up. It thundered the opening salvo signalling the start of the war.

The dignitaries broke into a run towards each other, yelling furiously. The cameras panned on to faces purple with rage and exertion. Some of the dignitaries were waving rifles, others had revolvers, and one white-haired old gentleman had a sabre.

"I don't know if I like the look of those rifles with bayonets fixed in them," Mrs. Jones said with a shiver.

"Everyone has an issue of six bullets only," George explained. "Bayonets are useful for hand-to-hand combat."

The cannon fired off a second salvo. The three groups of cartels sped towards each other mounted on motor bikes, each with its sidecar carrying a yelling figure waving revolvers or rifles. The bikes circled and clashed. The cameras focussed in on the first casualty as the bikes overturned. The riders flung themselves at each other.

The television screen divided into segments, each segment showing a furious figure in a well cut business suit, stabbing, shooting or wrestling with opponents, knives, sabres and bayonets flashing under the floodlights.

"Just look at that," marvelled Mrs. Jones. "Guess he must have gone through his quota of bullets."

A plump white-haired old gentleman, his face purple with exertion, and bayonet fixed, chased a slimmer silver- haired figure up and down the arena around the wrecked motor bikes.

The other figure moved faster, and it looked for a while as if his speed would save him, but he tripped and went sprawling over a loose wheel. The watching Jones' family sighed their appreciation as the plump figure bayoneted him through the back.

The purple-faced gentleman raised his fists to the cameras in a victory salute, and then clutched at his side. His face contorted with pain and he dropped over his opponent.

"Looks like he had a heart attack."

John was puffing slightly. In his excitement he was pedalling fast to get a brighter picture. The cameras panned around the arena, littered with bodies and the wreckage of the motor bikes.

"Looks like they're all down, folks," the announcer said cheerfully. "Unless anyone gets to their feet within ten seconds of the next cannon salvo the war looks like being over."

The viewers waited tense, with excitement. The cannon was loaded and thundered its signal. Only one of the figures stirred, and then was still. The cameras panned to another figure whose chest rose and fell in labored jerks, but he didn't move. The arena was quiet.

"But who won?" Jenny demanded.

The announcer's smiling face filled the screen. "We're returning you to your usual television programs. We will be back at ten o'clock with definite news about which country won the war."

John slid off the bike. The screen darkened. "I'm not going to keep pedaling for your crappy quiz show, Mum," he apologized. "I'm off!"

"I'll pedal," Jenny volunteered. "Just try and get the questions right, Mum. Be lovely to win six weeks full work on that quiz show."

"And don't forget me if you ever win," George said. "I would love even three weeks full work."

The quiz show was exciting. Mrs. Jones managed to telephone in four correct answers, but a beaming grandmother of ten won the big prize.

"It's not fair! If only I had got through with another couple of answers," Mrs. Jones mourned.

"There's always next week," George soothed. "Fancy some cocoa or home grown tea for supper?"

They were having their supper when John Jones came rushing back into the loungeroom.

"Guess what?" he whooped. "We won the war! There were only two survivors, and the cartel man has just died of his wounds. That old geezer who had the heart attack was our Prime Minister. He suffered a massive stroke and is paralyzed and brain dead, but technically alive because he is still breathing."

"At least they didn't ruin the rest of the quiz show over it," Mrs. Jones declared. "I'm off to bed. I've got a heavy day of study tomorrow."

"I'll put up the flag," George Jones promised. "Coming, kids."

John and Jenny watched, awed by the deep significance of the occasion. Their father delved into the carved wooden box until he found the right flag. Their eyes shone suspiciously moist as they admired the Southern Cross embroidered on it.

"I'm glad you bought us up to be patriotic, Dad," Jenny admitted in a choked whisper. "I think it's a wonderful feeling to have your own country's flag hanging from the flag pole."

"Yet some people won't even bother to put up the right flag to signal our victory," George grumbled. "I'll get to school tomorrow and half the students won't even be aware that we won the war."

"What will happen about the trade agreement?"

"Our clause in the trade legislation will be passed. Our heroic parliamentarians and trade cartel members have shed their blood in a sacred cause."

John tugged at his father's elbow as Jenny went inside "'Ah, Dad! What do you think about me trying for a career in politics - be a few vacancies after this war."

"It would be very patriotic of you, John, but - not much future in it."

Which was sufficient of an answer to silence John Jones, teenager of the year two thousand and fifty.

 

A version of this story was published as the winning story in the Frankston
Standard November 1983 s.s. Competition.
No rights held.