It was the sisters’ turn on the rope. We eevy-ivy-overed, and skipped all in together this fine weather captured by the slapping rope’s elipse. Sheila, the eldest, would give us news of their father, a prisoner-of-war confined, she said, in a bamboo cage smaller than the scoop of a skippy rope and tortured each day by the enemy. With younger sister in meek support, Sheila would then begin her questions. One at a time … and where’s your father? Dad’s Triumph cycle had left his spleen, and more, spilled on the Great Ocean Rd. I’d mutter … at Fords… for Manpower, then add … My uncle’s in New Guinea! We never queried Sheila’s reports about her father’s dreadful ordeal. She took us prisoner at each recess, doing her bit, as mother and aunts gave white feathers to the baker’s boy.
Take No Prisoners