Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12 — BOOK I

 

Expected to Stay

 

(April 2000, Sydney)

 

April arrived without announcement.

 

Sydney did not mark the shift with ceremony—just a subtle tightening of mornings, the air cooler at first bell, the light sharpening rather than softening as the day went on. Jackets appeared again, then disappeared by recess. Autumn settled into its own version of order.

 

ANZAC Day rehearsal began the same way most things at the school did: by timetable, not by sentiment.

 

Cadets assembled on the parade ground in khaki and discipline, boots aligned, shoulders squared, rifles handled with care that came from repetition rather than reverence. Commands carried cleanly across the grass. Movements followed. Corrected. Repeated.

 

At the far edge of the grounds, the Pipes and Drums were already forming up.

 

Geoffrey noticed the sound before he noticed himself listening for it.

 

The pipes did not rush. They never did. The drones settled first, steady and patient, before the melody rose—measured, restrained, unmistakable.

 

Flower of Scotland.

 

The tune moved across the parade ground with a weight different from before. Not lighter, not heavier—just changed. Where the rehearsal weeks earlier had felt private, almost accidental, this was deliberate. Public. Held in place by uniform and expectation.

 

Geoffrey stood still, attention fixed without effort.

 

He thought of his grandfather—not in detail, not in memory so much as in presence. Gregory had spoken of war rarely and of Scotland more rarely still. When he did, it had been without flourish. No speeches. No nostalgia. Just fact, delivered plainly, as if heritage were something to be carried correctly rather than admired.

 

Here, under an Australian sky, the music did not feel borrowed.

 

It felt placed.

 

The pipes shifted into formation. Drums joined carefully, keeping time without overpowering the melody. Cadets adjusted their stance, instinctively straightening, as if sound itself required it.

 

Embong stood a few ranks away, posture exact, expression unreadable. He did not look toward Geoffrey. He did not need to.

 

When the final note held, then resolved, the command came cleanly.

 

“Stand easy.”

 

The spell lifted without breaking.

 

They resumed rehearsal—marching, halting, turning on command—but something had been set. Not announced. Not explained. Simply placed where it belonged.

 

On the morning of ANZAC Day, the school assembled early.

 

The air carried a quiet chill, breath briefly visible as boys gathered in the quadrangle before moving toward the memorial grounds. Blazers were worn properly. Shoes polished. Voices kept low without instruction.

 

Parents stood back from the formation, restrained by habit and respect. Staff moved among the boys with minimal correction.

 

The Pipes and Drums led.

 

This time, the tune was slower. More deliberate. The sound carried not across open ground but between buildings, stone catching and returning it in softened echoes.

 

Geoffrey walked in step, eyes forward, aware of the weight of the moment without feeling overwhelmed by it. He did not think of loss in the abstract. He thought of continuity. Of how certain things were passed down not through instruction but through repetition.

 

At the memorial, the Last Post sounded.

 

Silence followed—complete, unbroken.

 

Heads bowed. Eyes lowered. The city beyond the school seemed to pause, if only briefly.

 

When the ceremony ended, there was no applause. No release. The boys stood until they were dismissed, then moved away in small groups, conversation returning slowly, as if volume itself required permission.

 

Later that afternoon, routine reclaimed its ground.

 

Classes resumed. Sport training followed. Homework waited where it always did.

 

But something had shifted—not dramatically, not even visibly. Just enough to be noticed later.

 

That evening, Geoffrey sat at his desk longer than usual.

 

He did not write. He did not call home. He simply sat, the window open, the sounds of Sydney settling into night around him.

 

He understood then what he had not named before.

 

Belonging did not require constant declaration.
It did not ask to be proven daily.

 

Some places expected you to arrive loudly.
Others expected you to stay.

 

Geoffrey closed the window, turned off the light, and lay back on his bed.

 

He had the sense—not for the first time, but with growing clarity—that this was one of those places.

 

And that expectation, once felt, had a way of becoming choice.

 

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